


Whatever It Takes

by Crystalwren



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Addiction, F/M, Homelessness, Implied Incest, M/M, Mental Disintegration, Mental Health Issues, Possession, Prostitution, Psychological Trauma, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:30:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 20
Words: 61,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crystalwren/pseuds/Crystalwren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester disappeared from his cot, aged six months. Nearly two decades later, John Winchester has finally found him; drug addicted, prostituted, scarred and broken in oh so many different ways. It's up to Dean to pick up the pieces and try to put his brother back together. Unfortunately for everyone concerned, Sam really doesn't want to be fixed...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Virgin Me

  
_no virgin me, for i have sinned_  
 _i sold my soul for sex and gin_  
 _go call a priest, all meek and mild_  
 _and tell him, "mary is no more a child!"_  
 _it's raining stones, it's raining bile_  
 _from the luxury of your denial_  
 _so i don't deny, i don't make do_  
 _i'll press alarms, place bets on truth...!_  
  
 _i'm so up and down..._  
 _and i love what’s not allowed..._  
 _i was lost, now i see..._

_whatever happened to mary?  
_

 

‘Mary Mary’ - Chumbawamba

****

** Chapter One **

 

The boy stands on the corner, hip jutting sharp enough to cut. Too tall, too thin, t-shirt and jeans like they’d been spray painted on. Mouth pushed out into a beautiful pout. Hustler. Dean chews his lip and looks at the photograph again. In it, the boy stares moodily into the camera. In the streetlight the boy stares moodily into thin air between cars and that pout clicks on and off whenever someone looks at him.

The Impala coughs as Dean brings her around. The boy’s pout becomes a fully fledged leer as he sashays up, leans his arm against her in a way that makes Dean’s hackles rise. “Howdy,” the boy purrs. He’s what, seventeen? Eighteen? but that voice is so old it’s practically fossilised and it doesn’t belong to a kid that young.

“Howdy,” Dean says back, his eyes on the greasy paws fondling the creamy leather of his baby’s passenger seat.

“Nice car.”

“Thanks.”

“A real beauty,” the boy breathes and the way his eyes skitter up and down the interior is positively obscene.

“Thanks,” Dean says again and if he wonders if      Dad’s finally lost it, ordering him to pick up some diseased little hustler, _this_ diseased little hustler and sit on him until Dad finally makes it into town, but Dean is a good little solider and he knows to keep his questions to himself. “So, ah...” wondering just what it is he’s supposed to say at times like this, and the boy smirks.

“Twenty for a handjob, forty for a blowjob, eighty to stick it in,” and Dean stomps down the urge to throttle the kid and instead beckons him inside. The Impala coughs again as Dean pulls out and he finds himself begging her forgiveness, promising her fresh wax and professional detailing to get rid of the kid’s smell, a gut-churning combination of cheap cologne and cigarettes.

“I’ve never done this before,” Dean feels the urge to point out, and the hustler snorts.

“If I had a dollar for every time I heard that,” and the boy reaches out, strokes Dean’s knee. Dean jumps just shy of the roof and nearly runs off the road. “Okay,” says the boy after a thoughtful pause, “I won’t do that again.” Dean’s knuckles are white and his teeth firmly clenched. “I might actually believe you.”

“Thanks.” Dean’s voice drips with sarcasm. He keeps holding the steering wheel tight, carefully controlling the urge to smack some sense into the smarmy little git. “Orders are orders,” Dean says quietly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

They sit in merciful silence for a while, broken occasionally by the hustler shifting in his seat or drumming his fingers against the door. He heaves a few meaningful sighs but otherwise keeps his mouth shut until they get to Dean’s hotel. Then: “What a dump,” and Dean’s annoyed all over again because yes, the motel _is_ a dump but all things considering the boy’s probably not qualified to pass judgement.

The ugly, hugely overweight woman behind the counter leers at them both. “Have a nice time,” she simpers and Dean’s feeling of needing a bath only intensifies. But the hustler just smiles, flicks his fingers in greeting.

“Hey...Val,” peering at the name tag on the woman’s vast breast, grins like they’re best buddies or something and Dean reaches out, shoves the boy forward.

“Can we skip the chatter please?”

The room Dean’s rented is as much of a dump as the rest of the place, but at least it’s clean. The boy oils towards the bed, turns around, that smile clicking into place once more. “Where do you want me?”

A headache starts to crawl its way up Dean’s spine and he says, “Take a shower,” because the hustler suddenly smells ten times worse than as he did in the car. Smirking as he sashays towards the bathroom, the hustler sheds his t-shirt in one smooth movement and Dean almost chokes. “What the fuck happened to you?” because that back looks like something out of a text-book on the pre-Civil War South, like there should be an iron collar around that neck, but the boy just shrugs.

“Some people like it rough,” he says over his shoulder, “I’ll cover up if you don’t want to see,” and he shimmies out of his jeans like an eel and Dean suddenly wants a drink.

“Hell with it,” and Dean takes off his jacket, toes off his boots and drags the bottle of rum he’s been saving for a special occasion out from his tote bag. He jumps on the bed and props himself up against the headboard, taking a good, long swig. The pipes rattle and clank as the water shuts off and there’s the sound of footsteps from the bathroom. The boy pads into the room stark naked, flaunting those scars like a stripper shaking her tits and Dean takes another pull from the bottle, feels a cold sort of pity begin to gnaw at the edges of his disgust.

“So where do you want me?” The hustler smirks and comes forward. His knees hit the edge of the bed- _fuck_ he is tall- and he puts his palms on the bed, slinks forward, _crawls_ forward like some great oversized cat until he’s close enough to stretch out, _licking_ at Dean’s denim-clad crotch.

That’s when Dean pulls the gun out from behind his back and sets the muzzle against the boy’s face.

“I’ll do anything you want,” says the boy without batting an eyelash, “Just don’t kill me.”

“Lie face down and put your hands above your head.” Not so much as a whimper as Dean takes off his belt and ties the boy’s hands to the headboard. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He waits for something like, _that’s what they all say,_ but the boy is utterly silent, face blank as he turns to watch Dean carefully. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Dean says again, and he flops down beside the bed into the single rank armchair. He pulls on the bottle some more and absently takes a smaller flask out from his jeans pocket, the contents of which he liberally splashes all over the boy.

“What the hell?” that gets a reaction, the boy looks at Dean like the older man has suddenly sprouted a second head but there’s no steam or smoke and the boy’s eyes stay green but knowing as Dean next pulls out a knife. Not so much as a flinch as the flat of the blade- thick silver wrapped around a stainless steel core- rests against the boy’s skin for one minute, two minutes, and when Dean makes to put it away the boy leers and undulates against the mattress like it’s some sort of bad porno film. “That what turns you on? Go ahead and do it,” and Dean feels grimy and sordid.

“If you don’t shut up I’ll gag you,” he threatens, and the boy rolls his eyes.

“You really aren’t experienced at this sort of thing, are you?”

“You’d be amazed,” said Dean as he rats through his bag for the length of clean rag he keeps for just such a purpose.

“Just fuck me, cut me, do whatever the hell you want, just get it over with!” For the first time the boy is obviously upset and Dean mercilessly pushes the cloth between the boy’s teeth, ties it tight. He gently pulls the quilt up over the scarred, naked body.

“I’d get some sleep if I were you,” and Dean drops down into the armchair, wonders why Dad sent him here, why he was told to do this, and eventually the rum and the drumming of angry feet on the mattress lulls him to sleep.

**

John Winchester hammers on the door at some ungodly hour of the morning, and Dean groans, peers into the dark and tries to figure out the time. He gropes around until he feels the edge of the bedside table, gropes a little more until he feels the plastic light switch and hits it. He can’t stop the grunt that comes out of his mouth, and the grunt is echoed by the naked boy tied up in leather beside him.

Shuffling to the door, Dean holds his gun carefully as he peers through the spy hole, and something in him relaxes at the sight of John’s craggy face. “Dad,” he starts to say but John pushes past him, eyes fixed on the boy and goes straight for the bed.

“Why is he tied up? Why, Dean?” John’s fingers fumbling at the belt, pulling the gag free. “Why is he naked? Dean, _what did you do?”_

“Nothing! Sir, you told me to make sure he couldn’t leave!”

“Then why is he naked?” John barks again and Dean cannot believe his eyes as John pulls the boy into his arms and engulfs him in a bear hug.

“He...he stank...” Dean whispers, and he’s not sure whether he should be horrified or jealous as John actually _kisses_ the guy, presses his mouth against the boy’s hair over and over.

“Oh god...oh god...” and then John says, _“Sammy,”_ and Dean finally figures out who this kid is and why he’s so important. He’s numb inside as he kicks the door shut, and on the bed a strange sort of battle going on as John fights to keep Sammy in his arms and Sammy tries to struggle free.

“Get your hands off of me,” he hisses, eyes slitted and menacing, “Fucking pervert. I don’t do threesomes.”

Dean’s completely unsurprised when Sammy rears back and spits in John’s face. He falls back against the door, slides down until he hits the ground, wishes that he was somewhere else, somewhere else and stinking drunk.


	2. If You Want

_If you want to plug in_  
 _For a high-voltage connection_  
 _Show me cold hard cash_  
 _And I will turn on my affection_  
  
 _So don't hesitate_  
 _I won't kiss and tell_  
 _No need to worry_  
 _'Cause I'm a professional_  
  
 _The show can start as soon_  
 _As I see money on the table_  
 _I’ve an empty space to fill_  
 _I'm willing if you're able_

 

‘Meet me in the Red Room’ - Amiel

 

 

“So what happens now?”

 

The neon pinks and acid greens of the streetlights have faded, giving way to natural dawn light. No birds though, just the sounds of traffic in the street below. Dean hates cities. Hates them with a holy passion and the need to get out of this one nibbles at him. “What happens now?” he asks again and John raises his head, stares at Dean with bloodshot eyes.

 

Dean’s seated with his back against the door. He’s moved twice all night, once to take a piss and once to answer the door when staff came to complain about the noise. He’d taken off his shirt and rumpled his hair, said, _My friends and I, having a bit of reunion, getting a bit carried away,_ handed over a twenty and shut the door. Violent gay group sex was the least of what went on in places like this. They weren’t bothered again.

 

John is still on the bed with Sammy. He’s managed to get some jeans onto the boy, at least, because John crying and wrestling some strange kid was bad enough, but John crying and wrestling a strange _naked_ kid made Dean want to take a scalding shower before stabbing his own eyes out with a bar of soap.

 

And Sammy?

 

Playing dead. Or rather, pretending to sleep. He had height over John, but John had weight, experience, and the type of stubbornness that led him to take down werewolves with nothing but a silver-plated bowie knife. Sammy hadn’t stood a chance and some hours ago, had simply stopped fighting. Leaving John to crouch over the boy, watch him all night, occasionally stroking that absurd mop of hair. It’s made Dean top five list of creepiest things he’s ever seen, above that sex show with the cheerleader and the snake, and just below the teacher that had groped him and flashed her tits at him when he was fourteen.

 

“I don’t know,” John says hoarsely. “I’ve spent nineteen years trying to get here. I never thought to wonder what would happen next.”

 

“Think fast, sir,” Dean grates out, “Because we have to be out of this room by ten.”

 

“Keep your voice down. You’ll wake Sammy.”

 

Dean begins to grind his teeth. “He’s not asleep Dad, trust me.” Sure enough, a single eye slides open and fixes Dean with a look of unspeakable malice. A shudder dances up Dean’s spine, but the eye shuts before John looks down again.

 

John whispers, “Sammy? You awake?”

 

The boy lays still but he says, “I keep telling you, mister. My name isn’t ‘Sammy.’ You’ve the wrong person.”

 

John strokes Sammy’s hair with a calloused hand. Then he slides off the bed, stalks into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.

 

Sammy cautiously sits up, scratches at his scarred chest. He looks at Dean. Dean looks back. And then that charming smile that Dean saw last night comes on again, like someone hit a switch. “Dean, is it? Dean. Come on. This is insane. You know it is. While the old man’s distracted, how about you just, you know, step away from the door? I’ll walk away. You’ll never see me again.” Dean smiles back. He leans forward, reaches behind his back and pulls his favourite hunting knife out of its sheath, rests it meaningfully on his knee. “Okay then.” The smile switches off and the boy glares. “You people are nuts.”

 

“No one’s arguing with you, buddy. What’s your name, anyway?”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

The toilet flushes and John comes back out from the bathroom. “You boys weren’t arguing, were you?”

 

“No sir,” Dean says. Sammy just flips his middle finger.

 

“Good. Dean, lend him a shirt. He can’t wear...this.” John nudges Sammy’s discarded t-shirt with his boot.

 

“Dad!”

 

“Just do it.”

 

Sammy doesn’t argue when he’s given the shirt, although he does stretch out his arms and eye the shortfall between cuff and wrist. He smirks at Dean. Dean smiles sweetly back. “I want it laundered when you’re done with it, stinky,” and Sammy gets this weird little pissy expression on his face and Dean’s not sure whether to laugh or smack it off.

 

“Jerk.”

 

John says, “We can hole up at Bobby’s for a few days, he says he wants to meet you, Sammy,” and Sammy almost blows a fuse.

 

“My name isn’t ‘Sammy’ dipshit! I’m not who you think I am! Let me the fuck g- _mmph!”_ John’s hand snaps out and clamps across Sammy’s mouth. Sammy kicks and struggles, but John mercilessly drags the boy off the bed and onto the floor. He straddles the boy’s chest and sits there until the kicking finally stops and the muffled shrieks fade away. Dean heaves a great sigh, gets up, drags clean clothes from his gym bag and goes into the bathroom. When he comes back Sammy is sitting up and John is next to him, talking softly but fast. John breaks off whatever he’s saying when he sees Dean, but it must have been good because Sammy is now quiet as a lamb. He glowers at the floor, his face all blotchy, but he keeps his mouth shut.

 

“Ready to go?” John says, and Dean nods, slings his bag across his shoulders. John hauls Sammy up by the scruff of his neck and pushes him forward. Dean goes first and John nudges Sammy along between them.

 

“My shirt,” Sammy says, twisting back and John jams his fingers into the boy’s ribs.

 

“You won’t be needing it again.”

 

“It’s mine-”

 

“I don’t care. You’re never to dress like that again, you understand?” Sammy’s mouth works and for a second Dean almost feels sorry for him. Then that pissy expression comes over the boy’s face again and Dean just wants to smack it away.

 

They keep Sammy in between them as they walk out of the hotel. The reception desk is being manned by a different woman, just as ugly as the last receptionist but cadaverously skinny where the other had been obese. The skinny woman utterly ignores them and Dean takes Sammy’s hand and puts a finger-lock on him in case he gets any ideas about calling for help.

 

“Aww, isn’t that sweet, you wanna hold my hand,” Sammy hisses under his breath. Out through the doors and into the car park, the early morning light flat and grey. They’re halfway to John’s truck when there’s an unholy scream and a man jumps out from behind a car, flailing a handgun about. Dean is distracted for the split-second it takes for John to crash tackle the guy and in that split-second Sammy jerks his hand away, leans forward and delivers a mule kick to Dean’s groin with astonishing force. Dean’s world narrows down to a red hot agony and he whimpers softly, falls forward and curls himself into a tight little ball. Through his tears he can just make out Sammy legging it into the distance.

 

Muffled thuds and yelping; their attacker is flung against a car and John turns to Dean. “Get up.”

 

“Wstfggle,” and John hauls Dean up and props him against another car, and then the older man turns his attention back to their attacker. “Who...who is he?”

 

The man isn’t particularly old or dirty, but he exudes a low grade sort of greasiness even as he cowers. “I think,” says John, “That he’s Sammy’s... _pimp.”_

 

“M’jus’ lookin’ after m’boy,” the pimp slurs as John begins to rifle through the man’s pockets. There’s a lifetime’s supply of condoms in there, and a little plastic baggie filled with pills. The pimp makes a grab for them but he’s clumsy with all the blood in his eyes and John is merciless. There’s a pearl handled switchblade too, which John puts in his own pocket along with the pills. Nothing else.

 

“Dad, hurry.”

 

At this time of morning the street is deserted, but not for much longer. John smiles viciously and without a word of warning, stomps hard on the pimp’s hand. Dean’s gut turns over at the sound of crunching bone but he moves quickly to hold the pimp’s mouth closed, muffle the screams until they become little whimpers. John brings his face close to the greasy little man and smiles. “Where is he?” and the pimp chokes out an address through Dean’s fingers, and howls when John stomps down a second time. “He’s not your boy,” John hisses, “He’s mine. And if I ever see you again I’ll kill you.”

 

“Dad!” Dean grabs John’s shoulder, and John shrugs him off violently. He cringes as John swings around but then the older man settles, feathers soothing back into place as he kicks the pimp aside.

 

“I know where we’re going. It’s not far. We’ll take my truck.”

 

“Dad, is this the best idea?” Dean says as he clambers inside. “How do we know it’s him? He doesn’t exactly look like either of us.”

 

“I know.”

 

“But-”

 

“I know!” John roars as they pull onto the road. “He’s your brother. Stop asking questions, that’s an order.”

 

Dean sits back, his groin aching, wondering if there’s enough damage there to stop him from ever getting it up again. John pushes the truck through a bewildering tangle of narrow roads bisected with alleys a cat would have trouble squeezing through, a miserable, worn, semi-abandoned industrial area being eaten alive by slums. Johns cruising for whores, junkies begging from drug dealers. Too many damn kids and none of them should be here.

The maze is indescribably complex. Dean has a good sense of direction but he’s quickly bewildered by all the twists, turns, and apparent double backs. He glances sideways, sees his father’s eerily calm expression. “You know exactly where we’re going.”

 

“Yeah,” John grudgingly admits.

“You’ve been here before. Often. You’ve been following that boy for a long time,” and Dean’s surprised to realise that he’s jealous, of all things, jealous of the time and obsessive interest John’s poured into this foul-mouthed little hustler and Dean snaps, “If you know where he’s  headed, why did you break that pimp’s hand?”

 

John’s eyes narrow down to slits. “He touched my boy.”

 

Which leads back to why John’s obsessed with a barely legal male prostitute, why John is convinced that this barely legal male prostitute is the mysterious Sammy, who disappeared from his cradle aged six months.

 

Dean takes a deep breath as the truck pulls in front of a building that’s three, maybe four stories high. The windows are plugged up with cloth, plastic, plywood, cardboard, any material other than the original glass. John kills the engine and jumps out, Dean following automatically.

 

“Stand back,” John says as he touches a device on his key ring. The blinkers flash and the doors lock; he’s activated the immobiliser. Then he thumbs a second device and suddenly, complicated, nasty-looking symbols blaze into life on every panel, glowing a sickly green before fading as quickly as they appeared. Dean boggles, speechless; black magic may well be the only thing that could protect a vehicle on this street but it’s the last thing he expected John Behead-The-Witches-And-Burn-Their-Corpses Winchester to ever use.

 

“We could have just walked,” Dean says instead of swearing. If he started now he’d never stop. Geographically speaking they’re no more than a quick ten minute dash from the hotel. Without the truck they could have ran it easy, and if this is where the kid was headed then he’s already here.

 

“We’ll need the truck later,” John mutters. He pushes a fake ID into Dean’s hand- police, narcotics division- which Dean pockets hurriedly. “Follow me.”

 

Straight in the front door. It’s the lobby of some long-abandoned office building, given over to squatters and decay. Rank mattresses laid out on squares of plastic denoting territory. It reeks of every bodily waste and fluid imaginable and Dean gags as he chases his father. Hoots, hollers and threats following in their wake. John has a Glock, Dean a semi automatic so no one tries to stop them but Dean feels all those human eyes and he can’t stop the shudder that wells up his spine. Give him ghosties, ghoulies, beasties, bumps in the night; he’ll take them all on, but humans scare him to death. John leads him straight down a corridor, up a flight of stairs, up another corridor. The ex-marine knows exactly where to go and Dean looks around him, the offices converted to cramped and dirty rooms, the smell, the used syringes crunching under their boots and he cannot believe anyone could live in such filth. John stops in front of one flimsy door. He gestures to Dean to get behind him and kicks the lock in with a single blow.

 

Sammy spins around, gaping. A cigarette drops from his lip and onto the floor. The tiny space holds several mattresses and a number of milk crates, and at Sammy’s feet is a duffle bag half full of clothes, beside it a stack of books. And a small rat cage, complete with a red-eyed white rat, its sides bulging with pregnancy. Sammy’s a fighter, he doesn’t stay surprised for long. He screams and lunges forward, a knife magically appearing in his hand. He’s fast, too, and it’s obvious John doesn’t want to hurt him and he slashes wildly, has John backing up before Dean kicks the knife away. Yelping, Sammy swears foully as he pulls another weapon from his back pocket. It’s small, and nonlethal in the immediate sense.

 

It’s a syringe full of blood.

 

Dean shudders. This is a building full of prostitutes and junkies, a nightmare of AIDs and hepatitis. Sammy waves the syringe and John and Dean carefully back away as the boy edges towards the door. The boy glances away, down at the rat for a split second and Dean realises exactly how to end this. He snatches up the cage and points his gun at the animal. Sammy looks like he’s going to be ill.

 

“No!” he says, “You can’t,” and he gazes helplessly at the wretched little vermin and his hand shakes.

 

“We’re all going to calm down,” John says, his voice even and soothing, but Sammy just hunches up and stares at them.

 

“Did Father send you?” he asks miserably, and Dean watches that syringe as the tip leaks a single drop of red.

 

“No one sent us,” John says. He reaches out and, without so much as a flinch, takes the syringe from Sammy’s hand. He throws the wretched thing into the corner, makes to touch Sammy’s face. Sammy starts backwards and swings his fist. John hits him. Hard. Dean almost feels sorry for the boy as he falls down, his eyes unfocussed. John tucks his gun in the back of his jeans, picks up the books, throws them into the duffel bag. “Whatever’s yours, better point it out now. Because you’re never coming back here again, d’you hear?”

 

Sammy begins to shake. “Why are you doing this?” he whispers, and John utterly ignores him. There are several more stacks of books that go in the duffel but the clothes- covered in glitter, artistically shredded, and obviously meant for whoring- John utterly ignores. Finally, Sammy wordlessly points at a metal box sitting on the windowsill and John grabs it too.

 

“Come on,” and John slings the duffle over his shoulder, hauls Sammy up by the scruff of the neck, pushes the boy forward and out the door. And then he stops, because they’ve an audience. Kids and adults, all with sores around their mouths, all too thin, all unwashed, all obviously strung out. It’s not clear whether they’re there to help Sammy or are just defending territory, but they’re nervous, angry, and Dean very carefully and deliberately points his gun at the ceiling as he begins to gently swing the rat’s cage back and forth.

 

A heavily muscled man steps forward, moving gracefully for such a big guy. He stares at John, rolls his shoulders, and the crowd stirs restlessly. It’s about to get ugly fast and then John reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his plastic ID, and bellows the magic words:

 

_“Police! Narcotics division!”_

 

They scatter, fast and sleek as cockroaches. A single little blonde girl is the only one to hesitate. She looks right at Sammy, who cries, “Jessica! Help me!” and she stares at him for a breath longer before disappearing after the others.

 

Dean keeps his gun trained on the rat as John pushes and pulls Sammy out of the building. The boy’s face is swollen, his eyes glazed, the blow to the head enough to scramble his wits. Still, he keeps calling as Dean and John bully him down the stairs, through the corridors and lobby, out to the miraculously unharmed truck. Calling for Jessica, who does not come.

 

It’s enough to break a harder heart than Dean’s.

 


	3. Tell Me Baby

_Tell me baby what's your story_  
 _Where you come from_  
 _And where you wanna go this time_  
 _Tell me lover are you lonely_  
 _The thing we need is_  
 _Never all that hard to find_  
 _Tell me baby what's your story_  
 _Where do you come from_  
 _And where you wanna go this time_  
 _You're so lovely are you lonely_  
 _Giving up on the innocence you left behind_  
  
 _Some claim to have the fortitude_  
 _Too shrewd to blow the interlude_  
 _Sustaining pain to set a mood_  
 _Step out to be renewed_

 

-‘Tell Me Baby’ Red Hot Chilli Peppers

**  
**

 

The Impala coughs and knocks as she pulls into Bobby’s driveway, and Dean coos at her wordlessly, pats the dashboard in apology. She’s been acting up for the past 100 miles and has grown steadily worse in the past twenty. Ordinarily Dean would have pulled over at the first sign of trouble and sorted out the problem, but damned if he is going to let his father’s truck out of his sight. On the passenger seat, the pink-eyed rat stirs in its cage, chirps at him and Dean wrinkles his nose in disgust because it stinks. First bad-smelling hustlers, and now rats. No wonder his baby is ill. He feels ill himself.

 

He pulls in behind John’s truck and kills the engine before the older man hears it. John jumps out of his truck and Dean gets out of the Impala. The expression on John’s face is cold and shuttered as Dean comes to stand beside him, and they don’t speak as John opens the passenger side door.

 

Sammy is tied to the seat, blindfolded and gagged. Dean sees, with a distinct lack of surprise, that the boy has soiled himself. Possibly because he didn’t have a choice- they’d been driving for seven hours straight and John had utterly refused to stop for anything other than to refill the fuel tank from a petrol can he had in the tray- or possibly out of pure bastard spite. Either way Dean can’t bring himself blame the boy, and when John clips the cable ties Dean catches Sammy as he slides sideways off the seat. Dean works his fingers under the gag, pulls it out of Sammy’s mouth and takes off the blindfold. Sammy’s eyes are tired and bloodshot and scared he sways and Dean realises too late that John tied the boy’s feet as well. Sammy slips out of his hands and lands on the ground with an exhausted grunt. More cable ties around the boy’s ankles; Dean saws at them with his pocket knife and says, “You really do stink, you know.” He expects Sammy to try and kick him at that, but the boy just lies there, utterly still.

 

John ignores them both as he busies himself with fetching cleaning powder and spreading it over the wet patches in the seat and Dean hauls Sammy upright, wraps an arm around the boy’s waist and starts towards the house. Bobby comes out onto the veranda and holds the door open for them.

 

“Hey Bobby,” Dean says.

 

Bobby just looks at them and says, “Bathroom. Shower. Now,” and Dean thinks that it’s fair enough. John follows in behind them, dumps both Sammy’s duffle and the rat cage on the kitchen table.

 

“Wait, Dean,” and John pulls out jeans and y-fronts and shirt out of the duffle and drapes then over Dean’s shoulder. Dean grits his teeth and wonders why he’s been stuck with this job but he sees John’s face and doesn’t argue.

 

Sammy limps along in front of him and it’s clear that the boy’s all cramped up but Dean doesn’t want to untie his hands just yet. And when they reach the bathroom it suddenly occurs to Dean that he hasn’t pissed since that morning and he almost doubles over. He shoves Sammy inside and pushes the boy face against the wall. “Have some manners and don’t turn around,” and apparently Sammy does have some grasp of basic courtesy because he doesn’t turn around as Dean pisses, just sways slightly in place until his hip bumps against the corner of the vanity unit, leans on it until the edge digs into the muscle and rocks and rocks. Dean grunts, flushes the toilet, does up his jeans and says, “You wanna use it?” and Sammy still doesn’t turn around, just shakes his head.

 

Dean washes his hands and sighs. He really doesn’t want to do this, but it’s not like there’s any options. He pulls out his knife again and cuts the cable ties around Sammy’s wrists and Sammy makes a fist, presses it against his hip and digs it in hard. “You got a cramp?” and the boy finally looks at Dean, nods very slightly.

 

Dean backs off, flips the toilet seat down and sits on it. “Have a shower,” he says, and Sammy starts fumbling at the buttons on his borrowed shirt. “I’m stating for the record that I’m not here because I want to be. Nothing funny.” That gets him a glare, finally, but the boy stays silent. Sammy strips off and yeah, Dean’s already seen it but somewhere in his head he’d edited out the full extent of the scars and he rubs his hand across his mouth. It’s. Yeah. Pretty fucked up, and Dean lets Sammy pull the shower curtain closed because he really doesn’t want to see them anymore than what he has to. The ancient hot water system rattles and clanks and but Sammy’s still utterly silent and it begins to bug at Dean after a while and he says, “So how did you get those anyway?”

 

A muffled “Fuck you,” drifts over the sound of the water and somehow Dean feels relieved.

“I’ve seen some spectacular scars in my life. Hell, I’ve got a few myself, but you’re in a whole ‘nother league entirely.” More silence. “It looks like someone took a whip to you,” and finally there’s a clank as Sammy drops a bottle or something.

 

“Funny you should say that,” Sammy says, and Dean cringes.

 

“Dude? Seriously, a whip?” and the water shuts off. Dean stands up, ready. Sure enough, the curtain’s yanked back and Sammy lunges forward, tries to spray shampoo into Dean’s eyes. The boy’s still cramped up and slow so Dean’s able to duck away, but it’s a closer thing than it should be because of Sammy’s freakishly long reach. Dean stiffens, fully prepared for a fight but Sammy just gives him a look of utter disgust and drops the bottle, gives up, grabs a towel, begins drying off without even a token sign of embarrassment. Dean pats down the bundle of clothes John handed over, checking for blades or cords or whatever, and Sammy snatches the y-fronts, makes that pissy face.

 

“Will you please stop fondling my underwear?”

 

“Believe you me, I’m not enjoying it,” and Sammy’s lip curls.

 

“You keep telling yourself that,” and yet again Dean finds himself carefully suppressing the urge to slap a bitch. Sammy finishes dressing and Dean cringes, knows John’s going to be _pissed off_ because the jeans are painted on and ripped strategically, and the shirt’s the same only with glitter. The boy looks like he’s ready to start hooking then and there, but it’s not like there’s any options so Dean prods him forward, out of the bathroom and through the house, back to the kitchen.

 

The duffle and the rat cage are off the table and pushed up against the wall. Sammy goes straight to the cage as Dean plonks down into a chair, takes the cup of coffee Bobby offers. He watches as Sammy takes the rat out of its cage, curling his fingers carefully around its pregnancy-swollen belly. It slips out of his hand and hauls itself up his shoulder, whiskers twitching madly as it sniffs.

 

“That thing better not escape,” Bobby says.

 

Sammy hunches over and says, very quietly, “She’s hungry.”

 

Bobby looks at him for a long time and John just stares at his coffee. Finally Bobby gets up, fetches a piece of bread. “Will this be enough?” and Sammy nods slowly. He takes the bread from Bobby’s hand. Instantly the rat squirms with excitement but Sammy raises the bread out of reach, sniffs it, licks it, chews a little off the edge and Dean realises that it’s being checked for poison. Finally Sammy sighs and pushes it into the cage and the rat races after it, tries to drag the whole slice into its coffee can den with little success. “Come and have some coffee,” Bobby says calmly and waits, patiently, as Sammy makes up his mind.

 

The boy moves slowly, and Dean thinks it’s a combination of lingering soreness and genuine wariness. He slides into the empty chair and even sitting down he’s taller than John, and it makes Dean blink because in Dean’s mind, John towers over the world. Bobby takes a sip from the coffee cup before handing it over and Sammy wraps his huge hands around it and huddles over it like he’s cold. They sit like that for a while. John sips mechanically from his own cup and stares off into the distance, saying nothing, and the tension is damn near unbearable. For once in his life Dean is _not_ going to speak because this is _not_ his mess and fuck it, John may never have explained himself a single time in his life before, but now is an excellent time to start.

 

In the end it’s Sammy who breaks the silence: “So what exactly are you cunts planning now?” Dean almost chokes because that’s the one word John hates, loathes with a passion, and the one time Dean had let it slip in John’s presence he’d carried the stripes for a fortnight. But John only sighs, finishes his coffee, pushes the mug aside.

 

“Sammy. I’ve been looking for you for a very long time,” but Sammy just snarls.

 

“Whatever. I don’t care about your delusions. If you want to fuck we’ll fuck. I’ll make it good for you. I’ll be the best you’ve ever had,” and Dean cringes, but John and Bobby are both expressionless, “I’ll do what you want me too. I won’t fight. Hell, I’ll even make it a foursome, if that’s what does it for you.” Sammy licks his lips. “Just let us go,” and his eyes flick to the rat cage before he catches himself and says, “Let _me_ go.”

 

There’s a leather satchel on the counter and John reaches for it. It’s stuffed full of papers and he dumps them out onto the table. There’s a dull thud and something heavy and wrapped in cloth falls out onto the table. Slowly, reverently, John unwraps the bundle and in it are two plaster casts of baby-tiny hands. “Mary...my wife...made these days after each of my sons were born.” He stokes the disks reverently, with more care than he’d ever touched Dean. “Sammy...”

 

“My name isn’t ‘Sammy’.”

 

“Sammy,” John repeats through his teeth. He stares at Sammy, who doesn’t look away, “She made a dozen of each, sent them to her friends and relatives. All of them were destroyed except these two. It took me years to track them down.”

 

“Such dedication!” Sammy breathes, his eyes wide and guileless, and grunts when Dean kicks him under the table.

 

“These are yours.” Plaster tinted a delicate green. “And these are your fingerprints from when you were run in for prostitution four months ago.”

 

There is a long silence, and Sammy stares at the police register. “That’s fake,” he says finally, but his heart isn’t in it. “Says here that I’m Miguel Sanchez. That’s not my name.”

 

“That’s right. Your name is Sammy Winchester. You’re my son. This is your brother, Dean.”

 

There’s a long silence. It goes on and on and Dean realises that he’s holding his breath. Then Sammy makes this unholy scream, this hair raising, heart-attack inducing noise that should not be possible for a human to make and lunges for John’s throat. The table is overturned, cups and paper flying everywhere. Dean hears a loud crack and realises that one of the plaster casts has broken. Sammy is on top of John, trying to bite off the older man’s face or claw out his eyes or whichever comes first.

 

_“I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you! You shit, you cunt, you dog-fucking fucker, I’ll fucking kill you!”_

Dean grabs one of Sammy’s arms, Bobby grabs the other and it takes all their combined strength to drag him off. Slowly they push him to the floor and then Dean straddles the boy’s chest, knees on those bony shoulders and Sammy flicks that switch of his and goes from screaming rage to tom on the prowl in 0.35 seconds.

 

“Oooh, Dean, you’re so big and manly. Howzabout a kiss, then, you big hunk?”

 

**

 

It’s later.

 

Sammy has been chained up in the bathroom for an hour now, on the grounds that if he tried shitting himself again it’d be easy to clean up after him, and Dean helps Bobby and John with the destruction in the kitchen. The table is firewood-

 

“I’ll replace it, Bobby.”

 

“That’s right, John, you will.”

 

-and paper is everywhere and broken bits of plaster and splinters and coffee cups and the paper is torn and everything is smeared with spilt coffee and Dean is shaking but John is _grinning,_ this big, happy joyous smile and Dean has never seen that expression on the man before. Time was when Dean was happy when John was happy, but instead Dean’s miserable, there’s so much that’s fucked up about this situation and he knows that the only way Sammy could have got his hands on John is because John wanted it to happen. And it’s clear that there is something in Sammy that’s shattered and Dean doubts that it can ever be repaired.

 

John says, “You’d better stay with him tonight, in the guestroom,” and Bobby narrows his eyes. Dean can see another fight on the horizon, one that perhaps John hasn’t anticipated. But it’s late and Bobby doesn’t argue, and Dean just grabs a loaf of bread from the cupboard and a jar of peanut butter, grunts a goodnight and goes to the bathroom.

 

Sammy’s wrists are chained to the towel rack. The flesh is bruised and bleeding and it’s obvious that he has learned the hard way that the rack is tempered steel and anchored to the bearers with carriage bolts. Dean drops the food on the vanity unit and unlocks the chain. Sammy stands up, rubs at his wrists and looks like the biggest kicked puppy in the universe.

 

“Look, dude,” Dean says. He stops, uncomfortable as hell, but licks his lips, tries again. “Look. I know this isn’t the ideal situation for anyone, but it won’t hurt to at least try, yeah?”

 

That absurd hair hangs in Sammy’s eyes and he looks through it at Dean. “Surely you don’t believe this,” and he sounds so utterly defeated, so exhausted that Dean feels sorry for the boy all over again.

 

“Yeah, I do, Sammy.”

 

“My name isn’t Sammy.” Sammy rubs at his eyes, looks away. Just breathes for a moment. Eventually he says, “So what happens now?”

 

“We have something to eat and then we sleep,” Dean says, and Sammy takes a step forward and grips Dean’s shoulders very tightly. Dean tenses up, ready for another fight but Sammy darts forward and pushes his mouth against Dean’s, forces his tongue between Dean’s teeth. Dean rears back and their lips part with a loud smacking noise that _echoes_. “Dude, what the hell?”

 

“You don’t like it?”

 

“No! Dude, that’s just fucked up on so many levels.”

 

Sammy blinks, looks confused. “It is?”

 

“Guys don’t do it for me. And even if they did, Sammy, you’re my brother. It’s wrong.”

 

“Why?”

 

Dean tries to reply and can’t. He just stares at his brother. Not only is Sammy broken, pieces are missing too and Dean doesn’t know what he should do. “Come on,” he says finally, “Let’s go and get some sleep.”

 

“Can I have my rat?” Sammy asks in this weird, tiny voice and Dean shakes his head.

 

“No. It stinks and it makes too much noise.”

 

Sammy hunches over further and says, “Then can I have a cigarette? I really need one,” and Dean nods.

 

“We can manage that, Sammy.”

 

“That isn’t my name.”

 

“So what is it, then?”

 

And Sammy takes a deep breath and says, “It’s Samuel,” and Dean closes his eyes as for the first time, it hits home that this really is his little brother.

 


	4. A Burning In Your Body's Core

_I feel a burning in your body's core_  
 _It's a yearning that you can’t ignore_  
 _I gotta go out tonight_  
 _Hey Jonny I got faith in you man_  
 _I mean it, it's gonna be all right_  
 _He's convinced himself right in his brain_  
 _That it helps to take away the pain_  
 _Hey what you say Jonny_  
  
 _Tell us what's going on_  
 _Feels like everything's wrong_  
 _Hey what you say Jonny_  
 _If the future is real_  
 _Jonny, you've got to heal_  
 _Hey what you say Jonny_  
  
 _When everybody else refrained_  
 _My uncle Jonny did cocaine_

 

‘Uncle Jonny’ – The Killers

 

**  
**

 

“Wake up.”

 

Dean’s eyes snap open and he stares into the darkness. There’s this instant of dislocation, he can’t figure out where he is-

 

“Come on, wake up. I need a smoke and I need to take a piss.”

 

-and he realises that this is Bobby’s ceiling and Bobby’s guest room, and he is lying on the ancient mattress that Bobby likes to inflict on his guests. Dean turns his head and sees Samuel looming. The grip of the hunting knife is warm in Dean’s hand, but he lies still.

 

“Can’t you go by yourself?” Dean mutters, and Samuel makes a pissy little huff.

 

“I don’t think I’m allowed. Short, Dark and Psychotic is lying across the fucking door.”

 

Dean blinks. “You mean Dad.”

 

“Whatever. I need to go out. Now.”

 

The joints in his shoulders pop as Dean hauls himself upright. He reaches for his jeans, pulls them on and tucks his knife behind his back. John is indeed sleeping outside the door, curled up in a tangle of blankets and he wakes and glares at them as they step into the hallway. The light is burning and it makes Dean’s eyes water. Samuel grunts and rubs his face.

 

“Where are you going?” John growls, and Samuel curls his lip.

 

“Taking a piss. You wanna hold it for me?” and it’s so late it’s early and Dean is really not in the mood for this crap.

 

“Get going,” Dean presses a hand between Samuel’s shoulder blades and shoves. Samuel whips around so fast that Dean is nearly taken by surprise. One of those freakishly long arms grabs him by the throat and shoves him up against the wall. The knife is in Dean’s hand before he even thinks about it, but John is there, grabbing Samuel’s other arm and twisting it. The boy growls and grudgingly lets Dean go.

 

“Calm down, son,” John says, in this weird tone and Dean realises that the older man is trying to be _soothing_ and Samuel pants, flexes his free arm, but doesn’t struggle.

 

“Don’t do that,” Samuel hisses, his eyes narrowed down to slits, “Don’t ever do that. You wanna touch my fucking back, you have to fucking pay, understand?” and Dean remembers the thick layers of scar tissue scrolling down Samuel’s spine and sighs.

 

“I’m sorry, Samuel, I didn’t think. Seriously. I’m sorry.” They stay like that for a second, two seconds, three seconds and counting, and at the tenth Samuel finally relaxes against John’s hold and is released.

 

“Don’t do it again,” Samuel says, this miserable angry expression on his face, the kicked puppy that wants to bite back but can’t.

 

“I promise,” Dean says. He puts all the sincerity he can muster into his voice, his face, and finally Samuel looks away.

 

“I want to piss,” Samuel mutters, and Dean glances at John and John nods just a fraction.

“Come on,” and Dean leads the boy down the corridor and into the bathroom. He doesn’t turn around when Sam goes to the toilet, but he does avert his eyes.

 

“Do you want to watch or don’t you?”

 

“I _don’t,”_ and Dean’s pity gives way to disgust. “You can be really gross, you know that?” That

just gets another pissy little huff. There’s the sound of water hitting water, and then the toilet flushes. Samuel washes his hands in the basin, shoves his head under the cold water and stays there. “You got a headache?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“There’s probably some panadol in the kitchen. Come on.”

 

The white rat chirps at them as Dean turns on the light, the broken table shoved up against the wall along with the chairs. Samuel pulls cigarettes and lighter out of his duffel bag, lights a fag and sucks it down like it’s water and he’s drowning of thirst. He drops the butt in the sink and goes to his knees in front of the cage as Dean rattles through the cupboard drawers, hunting for the packet he vaguely remembers seeing the last time he was here. The rat’s belly is even bigger and the cage _reeks._

 

“How do you stand it?” Dean says, and Samuel looks up, the rat nibbling and licking at his fingers. “The smell, I mean,” and Samuel’s attention goes back to the animal.

 

“It’s not usually this bad. The cage really needs cleaning.” Dean fills a plastic cup with water and offers Samuel two white pills. Samuel swallows them down without hesitation. “You got paper towels? A plastic bag?” The smell gets worse as Samuel tips the tray’s contents into the plastic bag. He wipes it out with the paper towel and lines it with more of the towel. He slides it back into the cage bottom, opens the cage door and begins picking out wads of urine-soaked shredded paper. The smell intensifies even further as Samuel upends the coffee tin den into the plastic bag. The rat lumbers out of the cage and tugs and pulls at the rips in his shirt, trying to slip inside but its swollen belly gets stuck and Samuel gently tugs it free. “Not long now, little girl,” he coos, nuzzling at its fur, “Tomorrow evening,” and Dean frowns.

 

“Not long until what?”  
  
“Until she has her babies,” Samuel says happily, scratching behind the animal’s ear. “Thirteen little kittens,” and Dean rolls his eyes at the sky.

 

“Oh dear god, more of them?” and Samuel glowers. “Also, I’m pretty certain that kittens are baby cats.”

 

There’s an audible sulk in Samuel’s voice as he says, “Kittens can be baby rats as well,” and that rat wraps its disgustingly prehensile tail around his wrist and begins to groom his palm. “She’s hungry.” He’s still sulking when Dean hands over another slice of bread, but he manages to say thank you. Then there’s the scuff of feet at the door and the rat is shoved into its cage, bread and all, and Samuel stands up and the whole of him radiates a, ‘rat? What rat?’ vibe, like he’s disowning the little vermin. John enters the kitchen and ice all but forms on Samuel’s face, the boy’s expression is that cold. Samuel edges away from the cage, sticks out his hip and turns on his smile but his eyes stay frozen. “Hey, big guy,” he purrs, and Dean feels ill but as he watches Samuel oil towards their father, he realises it’s all a distraction technique; the boy does not want John to realise just how much the animal means to him.

 

“Don’t touch me with those ratty hands,” John says, stepping back. “Wash up and go back to bed.” His face is calm, even understanding. “It’s late. You boys need to sleep.”He turns and pads away. There’s a knife tucked into the waistband of his trackpants.

 

Samuel flicks his smile off, drops down to his haunches again. Presses his fingers against the cage but the rat utterly ignores him, just concentrates on eating, and he sighs, gives up, ties a knot in the top of the plastic bag. Dean wolfs down a slice of bread, offers the loaf to Samuel but the boy just shakes his head, wanders out. In the bathroom Samuel turns his back as Dean uses the toilet, without being asked or making obscene comments. Still nothing as they go down the hallway, although Samuel pointedly looks away from John wrapped up in the nest of blankets as they go back into the guest room.

 

“Goodnight,” Dean says as Samuel curls up on the other mattress, still in jeans and shirt. Dean strips back down to his boxers, Samuel closes his eyes but Dean still feels like he’s being watched. He hits the light switch, lies on his bed, too wary to sleep as Samuel segues straight into a nightmare.

 

It starts off fairly quietly; mutters and sighs, but steadily builds. Dean lies on his back, watches as Samuel starts writhing. Listens as Samuel starts babbling. Half in English, half in Latin. Broken sentences, fragments of words, it sounds like he’s begging and the three words that Dean can make out clearly are, “Father, please,” and, “Ava.”

 

There’s a soft creak as the door opens and John slips inside. Samuel doesn’t wake. John sits on Dean’s bed, puts his hand on Dean’s knee and squeezes, half in affection, half in warning. It’s been so long since John touched him with any sort of tenderness Dean isn’t sure what to do. He lies very still and his skin feels chilly when John takes his hand away.

 

Samuel starts to cry.

 

“Dad, where’s he been all this time? What happened to him?” but John doesn’t answer. He just sits there, unmoving on Dean’s bed as Samuel whimpers.  
  
**

 

The nightmare eventually fades and Samuel rolls over and starts to snore. The mattress Dean is on is a bad one and too small besides, and it’s exactly the same as the one Samuel is on. It can’t be comfortable but he’s dead to the world. It makes Dean wonder how long he’s been sleeping rough.

 

John sighs. He reaches out, squeezes Dean’s knee again and stands. Looks at Samuel like the boy’s something longed for and unobtainable, and leaves without a word, shutting the door behind him. Leaving Dean to roll over onto his back and stare at the darkened ceiling.

 

He’d always thought that when they got Sammy back that would be it. Not quite white picket fences, but at least something approaching peace. Instead there’s this sense of _wrongness,_ whatever had taken Sammy is still out there, and Sammy isn’t Sammy either; he’s Samuel, and broken. Scarred up, fucked up, used up. Sees nothing wrong with sex with John. Sees nothing wrong with kissing Dean on the mouth. And that’s just. Well. _Ew._

 

Dean closes his eyes. He sleeps at some point because when he opens them again it’s daylight. He can hear Samuel stirring and closes them again.

 

There’s a sigh and the mattress at the other side of the room creaks. Dean stays still, pretends to sleep. Hears Samuel get up, pad across the floor. The footsteps stop at the corner of Dean’s bed, Samuel checking, but apparently Dean does a good imitation of sleeping because then the door creaks and Samuel is gone. No thuds or words from the hallway so John must already be up, but Dean can hear movement further down the hall and knows that Bobby is making breakfast with more noise than is strictly necessary. Dean waits for it, and there it is, a crash and a rattle and a frustrated cry of, _“Motherfucker!”_ Samuel has snuck into the bathroom with the intention of jumping out through the window, and has, by the sounds of it, discovered the heavy iron bars that are usually hidden by the curtains.

 

Dean gets up, puts on his shirt and jeans. Grins quietly to himself because you can’t blame a guy for trying, but it’s funny that Samuel bothers to get so worked up about it. Sticking his head out the door, he’s just in time to watch the boy flounce down the hall. “How’s it going, princess?” and Samuel doesn’t even bother turning around, just gives Dean the finger. Samuel does a good flounce, Dean notes. Nice and melodramatic.

 

He goes and washes his face, rinses out his mouth with tapwater and wanders into the kitchen. Bobby’s in that apron of his, _kiss the cook,_ it always makes Dean smile but the smile gets wiped off when he sees Samuel. The boy’s peering into a compact and putting the final touches on charcoal eyeliner and purple glitter lip gloss and while it might work for some other kid, on a six footer it looks downright grisly. Any moment now the floor show is going to start and Frank ’n’ Furter is going to strut onto the stage. Dean pulls out a chair out from under the wreck of the table and sits down, but he carefully keeps his calm expression and Samuel’s waiting, waiting for a reaction that never comes, and Dean feels satisfied when the boy’s smug face gives way to a pissy one.

 

The compact- a pink, girly little thing almost lost in Samuel’s hand- snaps shut. The sticks of makeup tremble, and Samuel holds the eyeliner like a cigarette and there’s this waver in his voice as he says, “I can’t find my smokes.”

 

“Sure you’ve not just run out?” Bobby says.

 

“No, I had, like, five packets. And they’re all gone.”

 

“Maybe it’s a sign you should quit,” Bobby says serenely, and Samuel hisses like a snake.

 

“Eat me,” and Samuel hunches down to coo at his pet vermin, ignores Bobby and Dean completely. The boy’s hands are shaking and there’s sweat on his upper lip and he can’t sit still. Strung out. Junkie.

 

They eat bacon and eggs, or rather, Bobby and Dean eat bacon and eggs with plates balanced on their knees and Samuel feeds the rat bits of egg. The rat reaches out through the bars with its front paws, pulls food inside, holds it as it eats. Those paws are almost as nimble as fingers and it’s quite creepy, really, because it seems almost human and there’s this Uncanny Valley Effect thing that Dean remembers reading about ages back.

 

“So what happens now, Bobby?” Dean asks, “Where’s Dad?” and Bobby shakes his head.

 

“He left before daylight. I don’t know where he went, but he’d better bring me back a new table.” The last is directed at Samuel, who ignores them both completely.

 

Dean takes the empty plates and puts them in the sink. He watches Samuel carefully and says, “So who’s this Ava person you were dreaming about last night?” and the boy flinches.

 

“No one.” He hunches his shoulders. “I haven’t seen her in ages.” He hunches down further and says, “I really need a smoke. I really need one.” And there is something so pitiful in his voice and in the way his mouth twists under the whore glitter that Dean gives in.

 

“I’ll go and get you some,” Dean says, and Bobby frowns.

 

“I have work to do. I can’t watch him.”

 

“You understand, Samuel? I know we can’t trust you. You’ll have to be tied up again while I’m out.” And Samuel just nods, and Dean stares at him. “You want anything else while I’m there?”

 

“Stuff for her,” Samuel says in a tiny voice, and the rat is grooming his fingers and it’s both disgusting and cute all at the same time.

 

“I’ll write it down,” Dean tells him, and goes to fetch pen and paper.

 

**

 

The Impala sounds better as Dean pulls into Bobby’s driveway, but there’s a knot in his gut and the feeling he’s been gone too long. He’d forgotten the engine knock from yesterday, had pushed her into town for Samuel’s cigarettes and litter and food for the rat and hoped she’d make it back, but in the end he’d had to stop. An hour into town and getting the things Samuel wanted, another three hours to repair and get back. Four hours away from Samuel.

The feeling of _wrongness_ only intensifies when Dean sees John’s truck, complete with a new kitchen table wrapped up in tarp and tied in the tray.

 

Dean kills the engine and he hears it, hears the screaming. He leaves the groceries in the car and jumps out, pulling the gun from its holster at his back and runs in. Steps into a war zone, there’s Bobby pacing and cursing under his breath but Dean can’t see any wounds and the older man seems fine, just really, really pissed off. Dean holsters his gun and moves further into the house.

 

They’re in the bathroom, John and Samuel, and Samuel is still chained up to the towel rack and his hands and wrists and forearms are slick and bright with blood and he’s screaming, _screaming_ like he’s being tortured and John is yelling back and neither of them are making any sense but there’s paper all over the floor, photographs, autopsy photographs and Dean picks one up and wants to vomit because the woman in there has been _skinned_ like some animal and all of the other photographs are just as bad or even worse and _Samuel won’t stop screaming_ and there’s _fucking blood everywhere._

 

“Dad, stop it!” Dean grabs his father’s shoulders, hauls him backwards. John turns, almost takes a swing at him but pulls back at the last second, stares at Dean like he’s looking at a fucking werewolf or something and Dean just wants to shake some sense into the older man. “Whatever you’re doing, stop now,” Dean says, voice shaking and John gives him this venomous look but the older man grudgingly nods. Without John shouting, Samuel starts calming down almost immediately, but fuck, it’s a freakshow of blood and makeup and it’s almost as awful to look at as the photographs. “Come on, little brother,” Dean says, kneels in front of Samuel and Samuel is shaking like a leaf. There’s the sound of John moving, picking up the photographs from where they’d fallen and Dean says, “Keys. Now,” and John growls.

 

“No,” the older man snaps, and Dean is suddenly so angry, so pissed off, so fucking _sick_ of the secrecy and games and for the first time in a long time he doesn’t want to be the good son.

 

“Give me the fucking keys, Dad,” and John looks startled. It’s been so long since Dean defied him and he must realise how angry Dean really is, because he grudgingly hands over the little key that opens the handcuffs.

 

Samuel grunts as his wrists are freed and his arms drop. He’s silent as Dean roughly checks his wounds, it looks like they came from the handcuffs but there’s too much blood to be sure how much damage there actually is. Dean isn’t game to get that blood on himself, given the boy’s origins. Samuel is silent but he’s still sobbing, great fat tears trickling down his make-up smeared cheeks and Dean doesn’t know what can be done.

 

“Come on, princess, up on your feet,” and Dean half pulls, half pushes Samuel up and Samuel stands, weaving slightly, pure hatred on his face and pointed at John.

 

“Samuel, please,” John says, half angry, half helpless, and Samuel’s lip curls. He lunges forward, grabs John’s face between his huge hands and plants a great wet kiss on John’s lips before Dean pulls him away. John’s mouth is smeared with glitter and blood and snot and it’s so much more than Dean ever wanted to see. The older man moves too fast for Dean to stop him, and he slaps Samuel so hard that the boy is knocked to the ground.

 

“You’d better go,” Dean says coldly. He kneels beside his brother, and does not look up as John gathers the photographs and leaves.

 

Dean doesn’t know what to do. He’s never been good at what you’d call _the aftermath,_ preferring to get the hell out of town as soon as possible. And there’s something unmanly about comforting males, particularly ones taller than himself, but the sobbing doesn’t stop and Samuel curls himself into a tight little ball of blood and misery. Dean finally ventures a little pat on the boy’s shoulder.

 

“Tell me what’s wrong, little brother.”

 

“It’s Ava,” Samuel says, “She’s dead.”

 

And he keeps crying and crying and crying.

 


	5. Every Sky Is Blue, But Not for Me and You

_Every sky is blue, but not for me and you_  
  
 _Come home, come home, come home, come home_  
  
 _Glass and petrol vodka gin, it feels like breathing methane_  
 _Throw yourself from skin to skin, and still it doesn't dull the pain_  
 _Vanish like a lipstick trace, it always blows me away_  
  
 _Every cloud is grey, with dreams of yesterday_

 

‘Come Home’ - Placebo

 

**  
**

 

“Get into the shower and clean yourself up,” Dean says, and this is what? The second? The third? time he’s done this and it’s beginning to feel like he’s trapped in a scratched record. Samuel only sniffles and wraps himself into a tighter ball, and his face is smeared with so much glitter and muck that Dean’s pity is swiftly giving way to contempt. “Get _up,”_ and Dean shakes the boy roughly until Samuel opens an eye and glares.

 

“Fuck _you,”_ and Dean forces a thin smile.

 

“Never going to happen. Christ. You’re disgusting, you know that? What the hell were you thinking?” Dean grabs Samuel by the armpits and hauls. Samuel unfolds and keeps on unfolding until he’s towering over Dean once more, and his eyes are broken and his face is a freak show. “Why’d you do it?”

 

Samuel looks confused. “Do what?”

 

“Oh for the love of- _get in the damned shower, Samuel,”_ and amazingly, Samuel does. Still not a whit of modesty or shame as he undresses, and those scars are just as- _“Jesus fuck!”_ – and Dean is actually s _eeing_ them for the first time, for the first time he’s _paying attention_ instead of just glancing at the whip marks and flinching away, and for the first time he sees that the whip marks are the least of it, because someone has _carved demonic runes_ from the nape of Samuel’s neck to the cleft of his buttocks, and there must be _dozens of them_ all in precise, fine cuts in the hollow of his spine that are too faint to show properly in artificial light. “Who did this to you?” but Samuel doesn’t answer, just steps into the shower and pulls the curtain closed.

 

The sound of the water keeps Dean company as he takes the worn, greying handtowel and scrubs at the mess left on the floor and yeah, Bobby’s going to be pissed about that and Dean really should use a rag or something but the way the blood mixes with the glitter makes him want to throw up and while he’s on his knees he sees the corner of a photograph sticking out from under the vanity unit. John must have missed it. There’s a deep sense of foreboding twisting Dean’s stomach and one look at the skinned woman was more than enough, but Samuel is Dean’s little brother, for Christ’s sake, and the boy may be a twisted little fucker but he’s a _made_ twisted little fucker. So Dean reaches out- and his hand is _not_ shaking, thank you very much- and snags the glossy paper. It’s not one photograph, it’s two stuck together and the top one is a shot of the woman’s face and shoulders. It’s not a woman either; she’d been skinned from the neck down and above the raw bloody meat is the face of a girl much the same age as Sam. Just a kid, and Dean’s stomach is tying itself into a knot before he even sees the second photograph.

 

It’s a shot of the girl’s corpse rolled over onto its stomach so that the back can be seen. There’s a patch of intact skin and look, the edges have even been scalloped into a lovely and aesthetically pleasing curve and the handwriting carved there is an elegant and beautiful copperplate:

 

_Sammy, come back to me._

 

Dean barely makes it to the basin before he vomits.

 

There’s an irritable thump as Samuel punches the wall, but the bitter bile is stinging Dean’s tongue and throat and he retches a second time at the taste of it. For once in his life he’s happy he skipped lunch and it’s not nearly as bad a mess as it could have been, and the ancient plumbing groans as he turns on the tap to wash it all away.

 

“Oh, fuck me,” Samuel says, because the water’s turned freezing. He gives up on showering and shuts the water off. Dean barely has enough time to drop the photographs and kick them back under the vanity unit before the curtain is yanked open, and there’s Samuel in all his naked, bony teenage glory and whatever killed that girl thinks it owns Samuel as well. Dean can only clutch at the edges of the basin, and Samuel fingers the bruise that’s coming up under his eye. The boy stares and eventually he says, “If it’s done with a really sharp razor it doesn’t hurt that much, really,” and it takes Dean a second to realise that he’s talking about the scars and that this is a clumsy attempt at being comforting.

 

“Just get dressed. Please.” Dean shuts his eyes, leans his forehead against the mirror.

 

“With what?” and of course there’s no change of clothes and Dean shudders, pulls himself together.

 

“Just use a towel, then, and get changed back in the bedroom,” Dean rinses the bile out of his mouth and then leads a disturbingly submissive Samuel out of the bathroom. That towel is only enough to cover the hip region, and John is nothing but an opportunist. There’s a flash of light and Dean whips around to see their father standing with camera in hand, and realises that he’s just taken a photograph of Samuel’s back and Samuel is not happy.

 

“Oh, so that’s what it’s going to be? This what gets you going, huh?” The boy rips off the towel, spreads his arms and stands there. “How’s this? This do it for you?” John shoots Samuel a flat look of disgust and stalks off, leaving Samuel starkers and arms akimbo. Dean has always obeyed John, always trusted that his father knows best but he honestly can’t blame Samuel for being pissy.

 

“Put the towel back on, no one wants to see it,” Dean says. He reaches out for Samuel’s wrist and stops himself at the last second. Samuel shoots him a weird look but he does put the towel back on, that’s something at least. “Get dressed. I’ve got your cigarettes in the car,” and the boy all but legs it to the guestroom.

 

**

 

The sun’s going down and the sky is a hot pink monument to Mother Nature’s bad taste. The cigarette makes his throat feel like it’s been gently sandpapered, reminding Dean why smoking is the one vice he never really took up. Samuel is halfway through the packet, lighting each cigarette from the butt of its predecessor, and it’s nice, nice to stand here, leaning against the Impala and watching the setting sun with his brother.

 

Less than forty eight hours ago, Dean’s awareness of Samuel’s existence had been purely academic. It’s pretty mind-blowing.

 

“Does it hurt?” Dean asks, and Samuel looks confused before glancing at the bandages that wrap around the boy’s wrists.

 

“Not much,” he says, and Dean remembers the blank expression on the boy’s face as the wounds were treated, not so much as a flicker as the hydrogen peroxide was poured on the torn skin and it’s yet another thing that adds itself to the list of unsettling things re: Samuel.

 

“That...that thing you did. With Dad...” Dean trails off, uncomfortable as hell and Samuel huffs in amusement.

 

“Don’t strain yourself, Dean.”

 

“We just want to help you.”

 

“I don’t want your help,” Samuel says calmly. He finishes his cigarette and lights another.

 

“You need it. You’re strung out on something- what is it, heroin? Ice? Cocaine?- your profession is disgusting and...and have you _looked_ in the fucking _mirror_ lately? Who did that to you?”

 

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not going back,” and still that calm, reasonable voice that makes Dean want to snot the little shit. “And I am not addicted to opiates, either.”

 

‘Addicted to opiates’. A vocabulary that starts with ‘fuck’ and goes downhill from there, and then the boy comes out with that. Dean shakes his head in disbelief, licks his lips, tries again. “Is it really that bad here? Granted, it’s not exactly been a walk in the park but surely it’s better than...” Better than whoring. Better than living in a slum infested with junkies and runaways. Better than being with whoever had carved the marks on Samuel’s back. “Better than where you were before.”

 

“It was my choice to be there,” Samuels says fiercely. “It’s my life.”

 

“It’s an awful one.”  
  
“It’s still mine.”

 

“We’re your family,” Dean says quietly.

 

“No,” Samuel gently replies, “You’re not.”

 

Dean sighs. He drops his cigarette butt on the ground and stands on it. “You done? Can we go back in before the mosquitoes eat us alive?”

 

“Whatever, Dean.” Samuel drops his own cigarette on the ground, walks back to the house without waiting to see if Dean’s following. He doesn’t bother standing on it, just leaves it to smoulder in the dust.

 

Back in the house, neither hide nor hair of Bobby and John can be seen. Dean can’t help but feel relieved at that, a slight delay before the next skirmish and he sinks down at the replacement kitchen table with a great sigh of relief. There’s a bottle of cheap whiskey sitting in the centre and Dean grabs a glass from the sink and pours himself a decent amount.

 

“Give us some?” Samuel eyes the bottle, hopeful smile and Dean snorts.

 

“You’re too young. It’s illegal.”

 

“Like you care,” and Dean shakes his head, hands over the glass. He pours himself another and watches Samuel fuss over the rodent. The boy takes small sips, with a decent interval between them, and it doesn’t look like he’s having to exert his self control. Whatever Samuel’s poison is, it isn’t alcohol.

 

“She bit me!” Samuel says with a certain amount of disbelief. The white rat goes inside its little den and utterly refuses to come out. There’s a look of betrayal in his eyes but Samuel is persistent. He sticks his finger into the den and gets another nip for his troubles. The boy squirms on his hunches and his face is a strange mixture of horror and delight as he says, “I think this is it. She’s having her babies!”

 

“Congratulations,” Dean says dryly, “Let’s wet the baby’s head.” He raises his glass in a toast and takes another swig. Samuel hovers over the cage and his hands flutter like he wants to reach inside. He bites his lip in excitement and indecision before backing hesitantly away.

 

“Gotta check the book,” he mutters, reaching for his bag. Dean eyes it, realises that it seems half full where it should have been bulging and he sighs at the depressing realisation that- _“Where the fuck are my clothes_?” – John had snapped, just as Dean had expected and Samuel’s working clothes were gone. “What the fuck?” Samuel upends the bag, books scattering everywhere and it looks like John’s taken everything, including the underwear.

 

“Oh god,” Dean murmurs under his breath, closing his eyes in resignation, “Please don’t let them destroy Bobby’s house.”

 

_“Cock sucking, mother fucking, son of a talking pile of shit!”_

 

 _And here we go again,_ Dean thinks as Samuel tears out of the room. He gulps down the rest of the whiskey and chases after his brother.

 

Samuel is up and down the stairs, in and out of rooms. He runs into Bobby’s study, where an overhanging projector paints the wall in the colours of Samuel’s flesh and scars. Bobby raises his head from where he was hunched over the keyboard, grunts, “Out back,” and returns to the computer. Dean almost gets knocked down as Samuel tears off and only just keeps his balance. “I told ‘im it was a bad idea,” Bobby growls without looking up, “But the day that idjut listens to anyone is the day the world ends.” Dean runs after Samuel.

 

Dean can smell the smoke before he runs out of the house and is just in time to see John drop the last of Samuel’s shirts into a fire drum. Samuel howls like a dog being beaten, but the both of them are too late, too late. The sparks fly and the firelight flickers across their father’s face, and the man looks like something that crawled out of the pit.

 

“Mother fucker,” Samuel’s voice small and helpless, and then John picks up a small metal box. It’s the same metal box that Dean had seen when he and John had kidnapped Samuel from the squat and Samuel stops so suddenly that Dean runs into him. “Stop,” Samuel whispers, “Please stop.”

 

John opens the box. He raises it so Dean can see inside. The object in there is a twist of hair and feathers and bloody fur and Dean knows black magic when he sees it.

 

“Please stop.”

 

John drops the box into the fire.

 

**

 

“I’m going to die.”

 

Samuel is curled up on the bed, exhausted and limp, unresisting as John strokes his hair. Dean is seated on the opposite bed, watching them both and for the first time in his life, he’s beginning to understand exactly what it is about John that pisses people off.

 

“I’m going to die,” Samuel says again, and he curls his hand into a fist. “You’ve killed me.”

 

“I haven’t.” John threads his fingers through Samuel’s hair, scratches at Samuel’s scalp. “I won’t let you die. I won’t let you.”

 

“He’s going to kill me like Ava and the others. I’m going to die. And it’s your fault.”

 

“I’m going to protect you. You hear me? When he comes, we’ll be waiting.”

 

Dean rubs at his face, feels almost as exhausted as Samuel looks. It’s beginning to come together; Samuel’s scars, Samuel’s fear. The dead girl and the scars on Samuel’s back. The one that Samuel called ‘Father’. The one Samuel is hiding from.

 

“He’s going to find me,” Samuel’s voice low and broken, and John’s fingers tighten in Samuel’s hair.

 

“We’ll be waiting for him,” John hisses, “I’m going to kill him. I swear, I’ll kill him.”

 

“Best of luck with that.” The boy curls harder into himself, away from John’s touch. “If you want to keep doing that it’s going to cost you,” and the older man’s hand slides onto the mattress.

 

“I’m going what’s best for you,” there’s a thin thread of anger in John’s voice, but Samuel shakes his head, doesn’t reply, and John stands up.

 

“Watch him, Dean,” and Dean smirks.

 

“Sure thing, Dad,” and John gives Dean the eye but the older man must be tired because he just leaves it at that.

 

“I’ll call you when dinner is ready,” and the door clicks as John shuts it behind him, leaving the brothers alone with each other.

 

“I hate him,” Samuel hisses. “I hate him so much.”

 

“He’s trying to do what’s best for you.”

 

“Do you really believe that? Honestly?” and Dean cannot bring himself to answer. Samuel licks his lips, reaches out towards Dean and says, “Come here.”

 

Dean stands, knowing what Samuel wants, knowing that he can’t give it to him. He takes Samuel’s hand in his own. “I can’t do it, dude. I just can’t,” and Samuel nods. Those long fingers wrap around his own and the look in the boy’s eyes is haunted and desperate.

“I understand, but can you...please...just put your arms around me? Or something?”

 

Dean knows that he’s going to regret this for the rest of his life. “If you ever tell anyone about this, I swear I’ll kill you myself.” Samuel snorts, pulls Dean onto the mattress beside him. Rolls over, fits his shoulders against Dean’s chest. Dean brings his arms around the boy, careful to keep his hands to himself.

 

There’s the sound of Samuel unzipping his jeans, and then his hips start to rock very gently against Dean’s.

 

It’s not the least bit arousing. It’s the opposite of libido. But it’s not the worst thing Dean’s ever done either, and it’s the only thing he can offer his brother.

 

 

 


	6. Sunshine in the Glory Skies

 

_Sunshine in the glory skies, when the broken men open up their eyes_

_Sunshine in the glory skies, when the day is long the clouds are high_

_We’re stepping through the door, we’re shooting from the heart_

_But if we get it wrong, they’ll feed us to the sharks_

‘Shark Food’ – Starsailor

 

 

 

 

The smell of cigarettes wakes him up.

 

Dean opens his eyes. The room is now pitch black and Samuel stirs in his arms. The boy smokes so much that the smell is in his hair, and Dean makes a little noise of disgust and sits up.

 

He stubs his toe on the floorboards and smacks the wall before finding the light switch by feel and Samuel grunts in protest, folds in a little further.

 

“Come on, get up,” and Samuel fixes Dean with a weary eye.

 

“Why?”

 

“It’s time to eat.”

 

“I’m not hungry.”

 

“I’ve yet to see you eat so much as a slice of bread in all the time you’ve been here,” Dean snaps, “You’re eating tonight, where you want to or not.”

 

Samuel sits up, yawns hugely. He’s missing the second to last molar on the right side of his jaw, either through violence or tooth decay, and his clothes are rumpled and creased. The last of the whore clothes, the ones that escaped by virtue of being on Samuel’s back. Dean gives it another day before John makes them go up in flames as well. There’s a lot of smoke and fire around Samuel, between one thing and another, and if the runes on the boy’s back are accurate, there’s brimstone as well.

 

“Since when do you tell me what to do?” Samuel says insolently, and the last of the- pity? Compassion?- some emotion Dean doesn’t know the name of ebbs away and all he feels is hungry, tired, and a little irritated.

 

“Since I’m your brother,” Dean replies. He sniffs; he can still smell cigarette smoke and realises that the smell has seeped into his shirt. He strips it off, starts hunting through his duffle bag for a clean one.

 

“You’re not my brother.” There’s the sound of Samuel shifting. “I’d have known it if you were. Father would have told me.” Dean’s hands still, but he doesn’t turn around.

 

“Do you have brothers?”

 

“Oh yes. A couple dozen, and sisters as well.”

 

Dean holds his breath and lets it out slowly. “Where are they?”

 

The boy’s voice is bitter. “Most of them are dead.”

 

“I see.” With a forced casualness, Dean continues digging through his bag. He finds a shirt and tosses it over his shoulder, but keeps looking for the sake of doing something with his hands. “What happened to them?”

 

A pause. Then, “I don’t want to talk about it,” and Dean frowns.

 

“Was it this ‘father’ person you keep mentioning?”  
  
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

“Is he the one who gave you those scars?” A pillow wings across the room and smacks across the back of his head. Dean files the conversation under, ‘To be continued later,’ and backs down. He stands, pulls the shirt on over his head. Samuel is sitting cross-legged on the bed and pouting. “Come on, princess. Let’s go get something to eat.”

 

Samuel follows obediently enough through the hallway, but when they pass the living room, John is there, bent over his own duffle bag and obviously looking for something. He picks up a leather belt. The heavy metal clasp jingles and _Samuel is off and running._

 

By the time Dean gets his head together, Samuel is crashing through the door and is out of the house. Two seconds, max, the boy could sprint for the Olympics and even as Dean starts after him, he has the sinking feeling that Samuel is too fast to catch. Cold start to a run is never good and Dean is barely across the floodlight-lit yard as Samuel reaches the edges of the scrub. That’s it, he’s lost him, if Dean’s heart weren’t pounding it’d be sinking but there’s a flash of plaid shirt and Bobby- thank god for Bobby- appears from out behind a stack of cars and hits the boy in a perfect textbook flying tackle.

 

“Bobby, you _rock,”_ Dean says admiringly as he comes up to the man and the boy. Samuel is trying his best to throw Bobby off, muffled screams around a mouthful of oily dirt, but Bobby is sticking.

 

There’s the crunch of gravel behind them, and John comes up, the leather belt still absently clutched in his hand.

 

“Sammy?” John says, “What’s wrong?” Going to his knees beside them, he reaches out. The metal buckle raps against Samuel’s shoulder, and Samuel howls and metamorphoses from bucking brumby to octopus, long limbs wrapping around Bobby as the boy tries to pull the older man between him and John.

 

“Goddamn it,” Dean mutters in disgust, rubs at his mouth. “Dad, put the belt down.” It’s a priceless moment, seeing John Winchester look confused but Samuel whimpering in terror rather ruins it. “The belt. It’s scaring him,” and John blinks, looks at the leather in his hand. Then he draws his arm back and throws the belt as hard as he can. There’s a slap and a clink from somewhere in the dark as it strikes a car. Samuel starts calming down almost immediately but the boy doesn’t loosen his death grip on Bobby. John stays still, doesn’t reach out again, but his hand flexes like he’d love to hit something.

 

“Sammy,” John says again, and Samuel shrieks.

 

 _“That’s not my fucking name! That’s not my fucking name!”_ The boy beats at Bobby’s shoulders. A fist narrowly misses the older man’s nose and Bobby grunts, twists his body around and brings his weight down solidly on Samuel’s chest.

 

“You’d better go, John,” Bobby says coldly, his eyes fixed on Samuel. John shoots a look of pure venom at Bobby, turns on his heel, stalks off.

 

Dean is suddenly exhausted.

 

One drama after another, and it almost seems like John is deliberately engineering them. The kidnapping, the burnt clothes. Revelations. The skinned girl. The missing cigarettes. The scars on Samuel’s back and the way the boy had gone to sleep in Dean’s arms.

 

It’s too much. Too much, and Dean wants to hit something. Samuel is scared of all three of them. This is perfectly understandable, considering the circumstances, but the sheer terror that’s directed at John is the difference between sea level and Everest and there has to be something more to it than father figure issues. A leather belt is just a leather belt until John picks it up, and then it becomes something infinitely more frightening.

 

“To hell with this,” and Dean goes after John.

 

“Go away,” the older man snaps as Dean comes up beside him. “You should be looking after your brother.”

 

“I _have_ been looking after him,” Dean says coldly. “I’ve spent maybe five hours away from him in the past two days. I even have to take him into the bathroom with me when I need a piss. It’s getting a bit much.” John growls wordlessly as they step into the house. There’s the smell of cooking, meat sitting in a pan in the oven, and Dean suddenly feels both hungry and a little nauseous.

 

John marches though to the living room and Dean drops to his knees beside the rat cage. Inside the coffee can den, the white rat straddles a pile of tiny pink foetuses. There are thirteen of these foetuses under the rat but just outside of the den are two more. Dead and gnawed. With disgust, he opens the cage and reaches inside. He’s on guard for the rat to either attack or escape and sure enough, that horrible naked tail starts writhing like a snake. Dean grabs the two dead kittens and snatches back his hand just as the white rat lunges forward, yellow incisors snapping together. The cage door clicks shut and he’s left with two tiny corpses. It’s perfectly revolting and he’d love to throw them out but he wonders if Samuel would like to see them. Mourn them. Have a little funeral or something, Dean doesn’t know but just in case he wraps them in a bit of paper towel and stashes them right at the back of the fridge, reasoning that if neither John or Bobby knows about it he can’t get in trouble.

 

“You know,” Dean says as he walks into the living room, “Samuel told me that his pet vermin would have thirteen babies. Kittens, he said they’re called. I just checked. There were fifteen, but two were dead. What are the odds of being right about that?”

 

Without looking up from his journal, John grunts. The older man radiates _a fuck off and stop bothering me_ vibe, something that ordinarily would have Dean fleeing the room but Dean is too angry to care.

 

“That’s not the only thing, either,” Dean continues conversationally, dropping into an armchair, “I saw a couple of those autopsy photographs.” John looks up sharply.

 

“You been looking through my things, Dean?”

 

“No, nothing like. You just dropped a couple in the bathroom. They slid underneath the vanity. That’s all.” Dean gives John his very best smile. “You know, the dates on those were pretty interesting; taken early this morning. If the girl was killed not many hours before the autopsy took place- and I may be going out on a limb here, but the meat looked pretty fresh to me- that puts her murder around the same time Samuel had that nightmare. Remember? About ‘Father’. And someone else.” Dean narrows his eyes. “Ava. I think that that was the name he kept screaming. Ava. Out of curiosity, was that poor skinned girl identified?”

 

“Not formally,” John says grudgingly.

 

“And informally, I’m betting that her name was Ava.” Dean licks his lips. “I understand why you burnt his clothes, but why did you take his cigarettes?” John is silent, but he flinches as Dean punches the armrest. “The fetish that you burned, that was some serious mojo. Ugly and evil, yeah, but it was meant to protect Samuel, wasn’t it? Keep this ‘Father’ person away from him. And you destroyed it and he’s convinced that he’s going to die. He told me that he had dozens of brothers and sisters, but most of them are dead. You know what’s going on,” and here Dean’s voice breaks, only slightly but breaks all the same, “And Samuel is terrified of you. I’ve never seen someone so afraid. You’ve met him before this, haven’t you? He knows you.”

 

Dean puts all of his pent up anger, frustration and hurt in his eyes and stares straight at John. John meets his gaze at first but Dean keeps holding it and eventually, John looks away. It’s the first time Dean has ever stared down his father; in other circumstances it’d be a major victory, but he’s too weary to care.

 

And then John says, “Come with me.”

 

In the study, the projector is off but the white blind is still down. It rolls up with a _thwump_ when John tugs at the bottom, and the wall behind it is covered with photographs. There’s tens of them, pictures of newborns, children, kids Samuel’s age, but no older. Some photographs are obviously of the same individual at different ages, and there’s information attached to each; sightings, descriptions, time and date of death. And at the centre of it all is a dozen photographs of Samuel all pinned on the same piece of paper, but the same written across the top is ‘Sammy’.

 

“I think there’s maybe ten or fifteen of them still alive,” John’s voice is grim. “Many of them didn’t make it out of infancy. Sickly. The ones that did were either killed by each other, or by their... _father_.” John says the word like it means ‘piece of shit’.

 

“These are Samuel’s brothers and sisters, I take it.” Stepping closer to the wall, Dean squints, trying to decipher the combined calligraphy of John and Bobby. “’Known powers’? What’s that mean?”

 

“Each of them had at least one little skill. One of them, for example, made flowers bloom whenever she touched a plant. She was drowned at age nine.”

 

“Witchcraft?”

 

“No. I don’t know for certain, but I think it’s some form of psychic power.”

 

Dean thinks of _Star Trek_ and _The Outer Limits_. _The Twilight Zone._ Jedi Knights. “As in spoon bending?”

 

“Among other things.” John’s sense of humour comes and goes, and right now it’s obviously gone. He taps on a photograph of a pretty blonde with sad eyes. “She can electrocute any living creature with a touch.” Another photograph, this one of a bitter-mouthed boy. “He’s telekinetic. I tracked him down to his adoptive parent’s house and tried to talk with him. Every single piece of cutlery in the kitchen jumped out of the drawer and hurled itself at me, and ten different knives chased me down the block and across the street. Two days later he disappeared. Caleb thinks he might have seen the kid about six months ago, but that’s it.”

 

“What can Samuel do?”

 

There’s all of hell in John’s eyes and he runs his fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp like he wishes he could claw through to his brain. “It’s more a case of what he _can’t_ do. Telekinesis, pyrokinesis, telepathy...”

 

“Seeing the future.” A dreamy expression comes over Dean’s face. “We’d make a fortune on bets,” saliva filling his mouth at the thought of all that green.

 

“Dean!”

 

“A joke. A bad one. Sorry, sir,” Dean says hastily. He gives John his best apologetic look, but John just glares. “But wait, Dad. Are you sure he can really do all that? I mean, he isn’t happy about being here, and if he could get out of here he would.”

 

“Without a doubt. He should be able to set us on fire just by looking at us. I don’t know what’s happened. I really don’t.”

 

Dean stares hard at his father. “You’ve met him before, haven’t you.”

 

John looks Dean square in the eye. The older man’s face is open, sincere, completely and utterly honest. “No,” he says, “I haven’t. Not really. I’ve followed him from a distance. That’s it.”

 

 _You liar. You stinking liar._ There’s the anger again, coiling in Dean’s gut, and he’s seen John’s lying expression a hundred thousand times before and there’s this urge to smack his fist into it. Then he hears the creak of the screen door, footsteps, and Dean needs to check on Samuel, needs to see his brother and this need is almost a physical pull. He turns to go, then hesitates.

 

“Dad...the scars on Samuel’s back?”

 

“A signature. Declaration of ownership.”

 

“His father?”

 

“I’m his father,” words barked out, angry.

 

“The one he calls his father,” Dean corrects himself.

 

“Yes. Probably,” John says grudgingly.

 

“The one he’s hiding from?”

 

“Very like.”

 

“But you burned the fetish. This thing, whatever it is, is going to come looking for Samuel.”

 

“Oh yes.” The corners of John’s mouth stretch so far it seems like his face has been cut in two. It’s a vicious, crazy smile, downright fucking demented and the sight of it slides Dean’s anger into fear. “I’m counting on it.”

 


	7. See her Dance the Seven Veils

 

_Oohh You should see her dance the seven veils_

_Oohh There are only four to fall away_

_She’s the one whose questions go unanswered most the time_

_Words_

_Words to keep from falling from her mouth_

_Even though she was a mirror in her own time_

_That wasn’t her_

_You know she was a spy_

_Oohh You should see her dance the seven veils_

_Oohh There are only four to fall away_

_No I won’t be coming home this year_

_Now watch them fall away_

‘Seven Veils’ - Eskimo Joe

 

 

 

Smell of meat, blood, soap, dirt.

 

Dean’s so hungry he’s nauseous, and the steaks that Bobby has cooked are paradoxically inviting and repellent. There’s a platter of them on the table, along with bowls of peas, corn, beans and potatoes and Bobby clatters through the cupboards, hunting for cutlery or something.

 

“I can’t eat this,” Samuel whines, “And it’s too tight. It hurts.” He works his wrists against the smooth loops of plastic rope. Dean just grunts and tightens the knots. He’s leaning over Samuel’s shoulder, adjusting the elaborate coils that keep the boy tied to the chair but give him enough freedom of movement to feed himself. There’s a pair of teeth punctures in the boy’s lower lip, courtesy of the tussle with Bobby, welling up with perfect droplets of blood that Samuel periodically draws into his mouth and sucks away. The boy’s clothes are filthy, too, contrasting with the scrubbed cleanness of his face and hands.

 

“Stop doing that,” Dean says wearily. “It’s disgusting.”

 

“What is?”

 

“Licking your own blood like that. God only knows what’s in it,” and immediately flinches because even though it’s true, it’s a cruel thing to say. Samuel just looks at him like he’s kicked a puppy or something. “Here,” a bit of paper towel that the boy looks at, hesitates before taking it in his teeth, “If you stop picking at it the bleeding will stop.”

 

Dean goes back to checking the lengths of rope. The knotting is elaborate and complex and Dean feels quietly proud of it. One hand completely bound, the other just loose enough that Samuel can touch his own bloody mouth. The boy’s food will have to be cut for him, but at least it won’t have to be ferried to his mouth like he’s a baby or something. “Just so as you know, the more you struggle the tighter this will get,” and Samuel pouts and spits out the bit of paper.

 

“Kinky bastard.”

 

“Have I mentioned that I’m straight today?”

 

“Whatever. There’s a perfectly good closet in the hallway. I’m sure it’d be just the right size- ow! Quit it!”

 

“Aww, what’s the matter, princess,” Dean coos, raking his knuckles over Samuel’s scalp, “Don’t you like noogies?”

 

“Geroff! This is unwanted physical contact!”

 

“Not at the table, boys,” Bobby says evenly, setting some mismatched forks beside the plates. Dean grins while Samuel ducks his head and scowls. 

 

“You’re the ones tying people up.” Samuel’s eyes flicker back to the tabletop and he seems to wilt. “I can’t eat this.”

 

Dean sighs, looks over at Bobby but the older man is staring out the window. “You are having dinner with us,” Dean says levelly, “Whether you want to or not.”

 

“But Dean,” and there’s this unholy irritating _whine_ in the boy’s voice and Dean’s temper finally snaps.

 

“You’re in no position to argue,” with a vicious tug on the rope that he regrets as soon as it’s done. Samuel’s face slams shut and Dean wants to apologise but embarrassment wells up his throat and chokes him. And then he remembers that four hours ago he held Samuel while the boy _masturbated,_ for fuck’s sake, and what the hell had he been thinking? He gives the rope another nasty tug and Samuel grunts a little in pain, keeps staring at the platter of steaks like they’re just about to jump up and reassemble themselves into the original cow. Feeling like twice the douche he did before, Dean slinks into his own seat, thoroughly whipped.

 

“Smells good, Bobby.” John walks in and Samuel cowers best he can, gnawing at his lip. The blood wells up again and trickles down his chin. A lesser man would lose his appetite but it takes more than that to put Dean off his food, and he grabs a steak and hooks in.

 

“I’ve noticed you’ve got yourself an Impala,” John says, cutting up his own steak into little tiny pieces. “That red thing, later model?”

 

Bobby hums. “The frame’s full of rust under the paint. Can’t be saved. I’m going to bust it down for parts.”

 

The small talk stutters on until John slides the plate of steak pieces to Sam. “Eat, son,” John says with an encouraging smile. Samuel looks at the meat like it’s something revolting instead of perfectly good beef. “You have to eat. Aren’t you hungry?” A faint shake of the shaggy head. “You have to be. Come on, Sammy. Samuel.” Samuel just keeps staring and John’s temper snaps. “Eat! Now!”

 

The drill sergeant’s voice and Dean finds himself gulping down a mouthful that gets caught the wrong way. He coughs and tries to force it down. Through the tears in his eyes he sees Samuel take a piece of meat and place it wincing in his mouth. The boy chews it slowly, painfully, until at last swallowing it.

 

Then Samuel vomits quietly and without fuss, a thin string of yellow bile, and the chewed meat back on the plate.

 

There’s a horrified silence. Then:

 

 _“Jesus fuck!”_ John bolts upright, his chair hitting the ground with a loud thud. “You filthy little bastard! What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?”

 

Samuel flinches and hunches down in his ropes. “I don’t like meat,” he mumbles, but the words are lost in John’s angry barks.

 

“How dare you? _How fucking dare you?”_ He raises his hand to strike Samuel, and Dean is suddenly able to shake off his stupor and move.

“Calm down, Dad!” John’s powerful forearm beneath his hand; the last time he’d struck Dean the bruise had taken a fortnight to fade and that’s with Dean rolling with the punch. Samuel has no such option. “I don’t think he did it deliberately.” John swings around and Dean jumps to his feet, tries to back away but his feet get tangled in his chair and he falls. John advances on Samuel and then there’s the sound of Bobby clearing his throat.

 

“Not in my house, John,” the tone of voice is mild enough. The unmistakable sound of a revolver being cocked isn’t.

 

Dean pries his legs out of the chair and stands up. Bobby’s revolver is pointed straight at John, and Bobby’s face is implacable. Samuel can’t seem to choose between being awed and terrified, and Dean feels exactly the same way.

 

“Bobby,” John begins angrily, but the other man cuts him off.

 

“Samuel told us he couldn’t eat this food. We should have listened to him. Thank you for trying anyway, Samuel,” and the boy looks confused. “Dean is going to take you back to your room and then we will finish our meal. I will find something for you to eat then. Is that okay?”

 

Samuel’s mouth works. Dean waits for something smart but what comes out is a tiny, “I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” Bobby says in that calm, soothing tone. “And John, if you ever try to raise your hand against either of these boys while you’re in my house, I will shoot you down like a rabid dog. Understand?”

 

With a face like a lemon, John grits out, “Yes.”

 

“Dean, take Samuel back now.”

 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean too,” Samuel says miserably as Dean works the ropes.

 

“I know you didn’t, Sammy,” Dean tells the boy, and doesn’t even get corrected. As they walk past John, still held in place by Bobby’s gun, Samuel pushes up against Dean, a full body press that should make him feel more uncomfortable than it does. Instead, Dean just feels weary and kind of sad because Samuel is shaking and it’s not from cold.

 

**

“Close your eyes,” Dean says, and flips on the lights.

 

Samuel is lying with his hands cuffed to the iron frame of the bed. Dean had left the lights off in case he wanted to sleep. The boy’s eyes are watering as he tries to focus on Dean, and seriously, anyone over six feet shouldn’t be able to look vulnerable but Samuel has the stomped on puppy look down pat. If Dean could find a way to market it they’d all end up rich.

 

“I’m sorry,” Samuel says again and if Dean hears those words one more time he swears he’s going to get biblical. He’s not sure on who, exactly, but rivers of blood will have nothing on him.

 

“I told you don’t worry about it.” Setting his burden on the floor, he unlocks the cuffs. They’re sitting snugger than they should because of the bandages Samuel’s wearing, and the pressure has caused a thin line of blood to well up under the metal. The boy keeps flinching like he’s expecting blows, and considering that the bruise on his face covers nearly all of his cheek, it’s understandable.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“This?” Dean tosses the plastic container onto Samuel’s bed. “Have a look for yourself. Can you eat it?”

 

“Yeah...yeah, I can,” Samuel says, rolling the container between his hands.

 

“Good.” Dean takes the plastic cup, fills it full of milk. He takes back the container, opens it, and takes a heaped teaspoon of protein powder and dumps it into the milk. “Here you go, princess,” he says with a smirk, “Strawberry flavour, just for you.”

 

Samuel rolls his eyes but doesn’t reply. He takes the cup and sips slowly and sparingly until there’s nothing left. Dean takes the cup back and dumps three times as much powder in there again, tops it up with the milk, leans back and watches Samuel drink.

 

“Been a while since you last ate, yeah?” Samuel nods and Dean settles against the opposite bed, watching carefully. “You’re to drink it all, understand. You don’t have to do it quickly. So long as it gets done,” when Samuel looks distressed. The room is silent for a while, except for the faint sounds of Samuel’s throat clicking.

 

“You’re not anorexic, are you?” Dean asks eventually. He tries to keep an even tone but it’s difficult. As far as he’s concerned, ‘anorexic’ means ‘idiot’.

 

“No,” Samuel says, his mouth twisting. “I just forget to eat.”

 

“And?”

 

“And what?”

 

“And are there things you don’t eat even when you do remember?”

 

Long legs shifting against the worn blanket. Samuel does not want to look Dean in the eye. “I don’t eat red meat.”

 

“You could have told us you are vegetarian.”

 

“I’m not. I’m not vegetarian,” Samuel shakes his shaggy head, “I just can’t eat red meat.”

 

“Why not?” Dean opens the milk carton and takes a swallow.

 

“That’s a disgusting habit.”

 

“That’s nice. Why can’t you eat red meat?”

 

“It makes me feel ill,” Samuel whispers.

 

“I see.” Another swallow from the carton. “There were vegetables on the table. You could have asked for them.”

 

“Just-” Samuel’s voice breaks, and he hunches over his cup, “Just the smell of it. It makes me want to throw up. I can’t eat at all when I smell it.”

 

“Why does it bother you so much?” The boy hunches over so much his shoulders are almost touching each over. “Samuel. Samuel, answer me. Why does it upset you?”

 

The plastic cup shakes and deforms in Samuel’s hands. Dean watches with eyes narrowed and at last the boy whispers something. It’s barely audible, but the room is quiet and, despite the years of Metallica, Dean has very good hearing.

 

“Because Soylent Green is people.”

 

Holy _fuck._

Holy Jesus fuck, that can’t mean what Dean thinks it means, because he’s seen the movie and surely Samuel is saying something entirely different than what Dean thinks because that’s just... _holy fuck._

Careful to keep his face straight, Dean says, “Are you done with that?” The boy nods and Dean’s stomach is rolling into a complicated knot. “Give me back the cup.”

 

The handcuff jingle as Dean cuffs Samuel to the headboard again.

 

“I’m going out for a few hours. I’ll be back. Bobby will be into check on you. Piss the bed and I guarantee you’ll be sleeping in it tonight.”

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“Out to a bar. I need a break.”

 

“Poor you,” Samuel says dryly, “I don’t know how you take the pressure.” He rattles the cuffs for emphasis and smirks.

 

“Shut up, bitch,” Dean replies. He takes the milk and cup and protein powder and holds them in one arm. “Take a nap. I’ll be back later.” He flicks the lights off on the way out.

 

John and Bobby are sitting very close at the table, and John is hissing quietly, that low, adder-in-the-grass, you-are-so-fucking- _dead_ hiss that ordinarily would have Dean shaking in his boots, but right now Dean is too tired to care. John breaks off whatever he’s saying when Dean goes past and opens the door.

 

“Where are you going, boy?”

 

“Out,” Dean snaps.

 

John narrows his eyes. “No.”

 

“Bobby,” Dean says evenly, not taking his eyes off his father, “Has there been any demonic omens in this area in the past hour or so?”

 

“None whatsoever.”

 

“Then I’m going out. I will be back later.” And there’s this great black thing rising in Dean’s gut and it slides up his throat, over his tongue and he spits it out of his mouth. “And stay away from Samuel while I’m gone.” As soon as he’s said it Dean is horrified at himself. There’s this split second where John looks speechless, then he’s rising with a face like thunder. Dean jumps backward, back colliding with the door frame. Bobby’s hand snaps up and grabs the collar of John’s shirt.

 

“Not in my house, John,” Bobby snarls, “Not in my house.”

 

Dean takes the opportunity to leg it.

 

**

 

“So there’s this old movie, like, set in the future. But instead of the Jetsons with flying cars and junk it’s this really, really crappy place where there’s way too many people and not enough room or food. So everyone eats these health bar things, made of plankton or something and they live in tiny little shithole apartments. Even hot water gets rationed.’

 

Two beers are enough to give him a pleasant buzz, but aren’t enough to make him drunk. Dean’s contemplating a third but the local town sheriff is on the prowl and it’d be just his luck to get done for drunk driving. The girl hanging off his arm is cute and her bleached blonde hair is cut into a tight little cap around her skull. Looks like fur; makes Dean want to touch it.

 

“Sorry, what’s your name again?”

 

“Meg,” she says, flashing very white teeth. “Meg Masters. You were saying?”

 

“So anyway, someone gets murdered and this cop gets involved and it’s been ages since I saw it. But at some point this old scientist guy dies and just before he does, he tells the cop to keep digging. It’s the plankton bars, you see, they’re not plankton at all. The punch line to the whole movie is,” Dean swallows the last of his beer and Meg jumps in.

 

“Soylent Green is people?”

 

Dean scowls. “You’ve seen it. You should have told me.”

 

Meg laughs. “It’s okay. It beats hearing yet another bad pickup line,” and Dean coughs. Bad pick up lines are his forte; he’s found that the best way to pick a girl up is to make her laugh, and nothing does that like something cute and lame. It just seemed that in Meg’s case, she was out of his league so he didn’t even bother trying. Apparently not because she leans in, puts her hand on his arm. “So why are you in this crappy little town?”

 

“Travelling with my father,” Dean lies smoothly, “Stopped to do some work for a family friend. Yourself?”

 

“I’m looking for my little brother. He disappeared.” Dean’s eyes don’t flicker but he watches Meg very carefully as she pulls a piece of paper from her pocket, only relaxing when he sees that the face on the missing poster is nothing like Samuel’s. “Have you seen him?”

 

“No. No, I haven’t, sorry.” Dean’s sympathy is genuine. Little brothers can mess up someone’s life good and proper, that’s for certain. Meg’s face falls and she tucks the paper away. “Can I ask what happened?”

 

That pretty little mouth of hers turns bitter. “He was the sweetest kid, but he started arguing with Dad a lot and one day...he just ran away.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“I mean, I understand why he did it, but I just want him back.” She rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. “And no matter what, Dad’s Dad, you know? You just have to do what he says. Because he’s your father.”

 

“I hear you,” Dean says quietly, rubbing his finger over beer that someone’s spilled on the bar. Meg’s fingers tighten on his jacket, reminding him that he last had sex seven weeks and five days ago. “So.”

 

“So?”

 

“One more for the road?”

 

A pause. Then, “Yeah.”

 

They drink their beers in silence. Meg’s little hand rubs circles on his arm before sliding up his shoulder, across the back of his neck, her thumbnail scratching alone the base of his hairline in a way that makes his skin tingle.  Dean concentrates on his beer, makes it last. He doesn’t know when he’ll be able to come back to this bar or any other, let alone the next time he’ll be able to pick up. Meg finishes her beer first and nibbles on his ear as he swallows, and slides her tongue into his mouth.

 

They leave the bar. The car park is quiet and deserted and he leans her against the Impala and kisses her. She undoes the buttons of her jeans, takes his hand and slides it inside. And- god, she’s slick and hot and the fur is tangling though his fingers and Dean’s wondering why he left it so long.

 

“Like this?”

 

“Yesss,” she hisses, throws her head back. “Bite me. Harder,” as he nibbles lightly on her neck. He slides his mouth down to her collarbone and scrapes his teeth against the bone. “Oh, oh,” and Dean can hardly believe that she’s coming this fast, rippling contractions around his forefinger and he grins because damn! This is going to be one hot night.

 

“Good for you, baby?” he croons.

 

He sees something glint in the corner of his eye and Dean is moving before he even realises what it is. The knife catches him across the shoulder, razor sharp, slashing through his jacket and shirt, down to the flesh beneath. Duck and roll. Dean is on his feet in a heartbeat, staring in disbelief.

 

Meg with her jeans undone and pushed down. Mouth red and wet, and his blood on the knife in her hand.

 

Then she smiles, and her eyes turn pitch black.

 


	8. Happiness Will Someday Bite

****

  
_Happiness will someday bite_  
 _From eating star beams in the night_  
 _Crunch it chew it spit it out_  
 _Strip the flesh and suck it out_  
 _Between the teeth of envy plain_  
 _Come bits of cosmos fire and rain_

_Running frowning waving madly_  
 _Came from nothing returning gladly_  
 _He said strip, strip, shout it out_  
 _You've done me over_

_You've done me over_

_You've fucked me over, now let me out_  
 _The bastard son..._

_Bastard son..._

_Bastard son of...._

_The bastard son of you know who_

 

‘Bastard Son’ – George

 

 

 

 

“Where’s Sammy?” Meg says, her casual voice and friendly smile utterly at odds with the bloody knife in her hand.

 

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” the warm wet sliding down Dean’s arm, the air through the cut in his favourite jacket and she’s a fucking demon and he _kissed_ her. He feels dirty; violated.

 

“I can _smell_ him on you!” and speaking of smelling, without thinking he rubs at his face and almost gags because the smell of her pussy is all over his hands and now his mouth. He thinks that he may never want to eat pussy again, ever, which is completely unfair.

 

“You’re delusional,” Dean snaps, sliding his hand to the small of his back.

 

“Looking for this?”

 

Fingers closing on cloth and air; in her other hand, Meg holds up the Colt 1911 that she lifted off of him while they kissed. “Fuck!” She throws it into the dark and Dean curses again because he really liked that gun.

 

“Foreplay’s over,” Meg tells him, tugging her shirt down until the tops of her breasts are exposed. “Tell me where he is.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“Tell me where he is, or I’ll scream.”

 

“Lady, you’re the one who stabbed me.”

 

She smiles. “And do you think anyone will believe you when you tell them it wasn’t in self defence? Let’s see, shall we?” Meg opens her mouth and lets loose a long, eardrum-piercing scream.

 

“Jesus fuck!” And out from the bar comes one drunk, two, three, and oh look, it’s the damned sheriff as well and won’t Dean getting arrested put a crimp on everyone’s plans? Especially when the sheriff pays a little visit to Bobby’s house and meets one Samuel, kidnapped and held against his will by a trio of shady characters in a house stuffed to the brim with occult paraphernalia.

 

“Fine,” Dean hisses, “Fine. I’ll do whatever you want,” and Meg giggles. She steps forward, throws her arms around him.

 

“You idiot, you scared me!” Loud enough to be heard from the bar door and she bites him hard on his ear. Dean grunts; his skin crawls as she slides the knife under his jacket and the tip of it pushes in just enough to draw blood. There’s a contemptuous jeer from their audience as it disbands and goes back inside. Dean tries to pull away and she clenches her teeth in warning. Oh, god, a demon is about to do a Mike Tyson on him. “Let’s lay some ground rules, Deany-baby. You walk in front of me. No sudden movements. And you take me straight to little Sammy.”

 

“We’ll take my car,” Dean says quickly. There’s a sudden wash of pain from his ear and his back; Meg has simultaneously stabbed him and bitten hard enough to draw blood.

 

“I’m not as green as I am cabbage-looking,” she hisses around abused flesh and Dean thinks longingly of the protective sigils and demon traps and salt embedded in just about every part of the Impala that isn’t immediately obvious to the naked eye. “We’ll take my car,” as she steps around him and shoves him towards one of those glorified lunchboxes so attractive to women of a certain age and oh god, it’s hot pink. Worse than his ear or his back is the damage to his masculinity and Dean thinks he might as well put on a pair of lacy satin knickers and call himself Deanna. “Remember: no sudden movements.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mumbles. He’s tall and she’s short so when he slides into the driver’s seat his knees just about end up at his ears. Meg sniggers as he attempts to flex his legs. She lets him move the seat back and then sits behind him, knife at his throat.

 

“Drive,” and he does.

 

It’s the opposite direction to Bobby’s house; the outskirts of town where the scrub is slowly taking over an abandoned church. Sacred and isolated; the perfect place to hide someone from the combined gaze of humans and demons.

 

“He’s hidden in the crypt,” Dean says, scrambling out of the car.

 

“Let’s go,” Meg says at his back and Dean whips around, foot coming up to kick the knife out of her hands. But she’s fast- inhumanly, terrifyingly- and she’s out of range before he’s even a third of the way there.

 

“Fuck!”

 

“Watch your fucking mouth,” she snaps, and flicks her fingers. A surprised grunt escapes Dean as an invisible force smacks him hard in the gut. He doubles over, wheezing, and Meg takes the opportunity to punch him in the jaw. “He’s not here,” she says, “Sammy’s not here, you bastard.”

 

“And you’re surprised by that how?” Dean gasps, falling backwards. She advances and he scrambles to get away from her. The soil is dry, loose and sandy and he throws a handful of it in her eyes.

 

It works; she’s distracted, hissing as she swipes at the sand, not because it actually hurts her but because it stops her from seeing properly. The old church is metres away and ignoring the pain in his gut, his face, his ear, his back, Dean legs it in through the open double doors, throws them shut on rusting hinges and drags a bench or two in front of them. The roof is almost gone and there’s enough moonlight for him to head through the dust and muck towards the decrepit altar, fumbling in his pocket for his mobile and what a surprise, he realises that she stole that too. So he’s trapped with no phone and no weapon other than a knife or two, no salt and no one knows where he is. What a wonderful night this is turning out to be.  All he’d wanted was to have a few drinks away from the pressure cooker atmosphere of Bobby’s house. And get laid. Instead there’s a very good chance he’s about to die. Maybe Pastor Jim was on to something when he went on about this ‘abstinence’ business?

 

Dean weighs the difference between dying right here and now and a life without sex, and decides that a life without sex isn’t really worth living anyway.

 

Oh well, it could be worse. Dean knows this church as being one that wasn’t deconsecrated before it was abandoned. This is still holy ground. He’s got a little time to catch his breath. But the whole building is made of wood and is bone dry, and all that unholy bitch needs do is toss a match.

 

“Oh, Deany-baby!” There’s a massive thud and the doors shudder. Another thud, then another, and the benches snap into sticks as the doors slam into them and it’s open and there’s Meg, silhouetted against the moonlight. 

 

“This is consecrated ground, you slut!”

 

“Oh, I know that. I’m high enough up the food chain for it not to matter,” and Dean snarls silently, pulls his knife from his boot because he knows he shouldn’t have assumed, should have drawn a Devil’s Trap as a matter of course. This whole thing has been a farce right from the start.

 

“Stupid, stupid,” he hisses to himself, preparing to lunge for the throat. There’s the sound of her footsteps and Dean waits, choking on the dust.

 

“It’s quite simple, Dean. Give me Sammy, and I’ll let you live.”

 

“Not a chance.”

 

 _“Give me back my brother!”_ It rings like genuine grief.

 

Then there’s another set of footsteps behind her, heavy and firm.

 

“Stay away from my boys, you unholy bitch.” The loud crack of a rifle and Dean sobs with relief.

 

“Dad!”

 

“Stay where you are, Dean,” and Dean peers around the altar. He can see the broad shoulders of his father, but the light is too dim to make out his face. Meg is doubled over.

 

“You shot me...with holy water...bastard.”

 

“I want information,” John growls.

 

“You won’t get it from me. By the way, John...your wife says ‘hi’.” The hiss of a match being lit and Meg flicks it into a pile of dry leaves. There’s a ‘whoomph’ and it bursts into flames far quicker than is natural. John roars wordlessly and shoots her again; Meg gives him the finger, strides into the flames and disappears.

 

Dean ducks out from behind the altar and the fire is spreading faster than anything he’s ever seen that’s not soaked in solvents and hydrocarbons. “Come on, Dad!” John whips around, stares at Dean, snarls, turns on his heel and stalks out, Dean close behind.

 

They retreat to a safe distance and watch the flames. Dean is sore all over and he can’t stop coughing. John drags him around the parameter, checking, but of course the Demon is long gone and Dean’s filled with shame because he knows he’d been stupid and it’s his fault that Meg got away.

 

“I’m sorry, sir.”

 

“I don’t want to hear it.”

 

The mood of both of them isn’t improved any by searching Meg’s car, and the discovery of the original owner in the boot, slit throat like a twisted second grin. She’d been pretty. Finding Dean’s mobile phone on the backseat is a plus, but a vanishingly low one in comparison.

 

“Why were you following me?”

 

John doesn’t answer. He strides into the scrub, down a dirt trail, and the sirens of the fire engines are almost deafening. They quickly come to where John’s stashed the truck and they drive in silence down a forgotten track until it takes them back to the town, back to the bar where Dean left the Impala.

 

**

 

His boots thump on the veranda and Dean staggers in, weary to the bone. John brushes past, disappears into the house.

 

Dean goes into the kitchen and drops into a chair. Just sits, stares at the ceiling. The rat stirs and chirps, and he makes a mental note to have Samuel clean out the cage; it’s starting to stink again.

 

“I really, really hate rats,” Dean says out loud. He aches. Dried blood and saliva flakes off on his fingers when he touches his ear. The bleeding’s stopped and Dean hopes this means it won’t need stitching. Walking around with his head bandaged up would make him look like an idiot. He sighs, rests his chin on his chest, closes his eyes and slides out of the world, just for a minute, but it’s broken by the soft scuff of a foot. Dean turns and there’s Samuel, eyes fixed on Dean and the expression on the boy’s face is twisted. Those green eyes darker, almost muddy-looking.

 

There’s also another bruise on that face, opposite cheek but not as large as the older one, and the whore shirt is torn and hanging off one shoulder.

 

“What happened, Samuel?” Dean asks quietly, and the boy drops his head, peers at Dean through thick hair.

 

“You stink,” Samuel hisses, and he looks at Dean like he can’t decide whether he wants to kill or fuck.

 

“I was in a fight,” Dean says, keeps his body open and relaxed, knows he can reach his knife before Samuel can go two steps.

 

“You stink. You stink,” and Bobby comes up behind Samuel, squeezes the boy’s shoulder in warning.

 

“Anything that needs stitching right away, Dean?” Dean shakes his head. “Go and have a shower. Put your jacket and shirt in my study, the rest in the washing machine.”

 

As Dean brushes past Samuel he swears he hears the boy growl like a dog.

 

The shower turns out to be exactly what he needs and Dean moans in pleasure at the hot water pounding the aches in his shoulder and back and he washes thoroughly, blood, sweat, dirt and demon saliva, demon pussy. His back stings; an annoyance but not an agony, the cut deep but short and clean. His ear hurts more. Once he’s clean he turns his face to the wall and slides a soap-slick hand to his cock. Between hunting, between looking after Samuel it’s been almost a week since he did it last and he pulls hard, fast, keeps his mind blank until the world dissolves into white.

 

**

 

“This is interesting,” Bobby says as he rubs an alcohol wipe over the cut on Dean’s back. “What did it feel like when she did this?”

 

Samuel is watching them sullenly, playing idly with the rat that runs and runs through his hands and over his neck. It hauls itself nimbly up his shoulder to scratch at his hair and lick at his jaw. It’s cute and utterly disgusting at the same time.

 

“It felt like she’d cut me,” Dean says, biting off impatience. Bobby doesn’t waste words, but it had been a clean slice.

 

“Just the once?”  
  
“That’s what I thought.”

 

Bobby hums thoughtfully, reaches over to the dresser for pen and paper. Three hard, sure strokes and he hands the paper to Dean. It’s a copy of the mark Meg had put on him; a vertical line with two shorter lines coming from a third of the way down and slanting towards the base of another vertical line.

 

“Looks familiar,” Dean says, trying to place it.

 

“Anglo-Saxon. Rune. ‘Calc’ meaning ‘chalice’,” Samuel says. He catches the rat, brings it up to his face and kisses it on the belly as it squirms.

 

Dean and Bobby exchange glances but there’s first aid needed. Bobby smears something antiseptic-smelling on Dean’s back and he’s just taping a bit of gauze on over the cut as John walks in. Samuel flinches and doubles over, wrapping his entire body around the rat. The boy peers at John as though the older man is a monster and the new bruise on Samuel’s face is shiny and taunt.

 

“So does either of you want to tell me what happened while I was gone?” and John’s mouth curls with disgust.

 

“I’ve some new clothes for the boy. I thought it was time he wore them,” and Samuel scowls.

 

“I don’t want them.”

 

“Too bad,” John’s voice flat and clipped.

 

Dean looks at Bobby, sees the door shut in the old man’s eyes. The longer the Winchesters stay in this house the quieter and angrier Bobby becomes and it hurts Dean deep inside. Bobby and John- and now Samuel- are the only family Dean has but there’s a storm building and Dean knows that once it blows over, some things will be at an end.

 

“Why were you following me, Dad?”

 

“I thought you and I needed to talk. About some things,” and John’s eyes flick back and forth between Samuel and Dean. “When I got to the bar I saw you were busy, so I hung back.”  In other words, John had seen Meg for what she was and decided to see what would happen, see if between Dean and himself they could trap or kill her. John reaches into the waistband of his jeans, pulls out Dean’s favourite Colt and hands it over. “I have to admit I’m kinda disappointed in you, boy,” and Dean flinches.

 

“Sorry, Dad,” the revolver in his fingers, the metal and wood dirty and scratched but otherwise undamaged. Dean licks his lips, tries to find an excuse or something that would make it better but then Samuel gasps and fumbles.

 

The rat slides through the boy’s fingers, moving like lighting across the tabletop and Dean cringes back because it’s bad enough when the thing is locked in its cage but loose it gives him the utter creeps. Samuel makes a grab for it but the rat is fast. Not fast enough for John as it turns out; he moves as quick as blinking and there’s a loud squeak, the rat still in his hand, tail dangling limp.

 

There’s a shocked silence.

 

Samuel stands up, mouth working in horror and Dean’s just as horrified because even though it’s a damned rat it’s still a pet and Samuel loves it. A low whine starts in the back of Samuel’s throat and then it moves, that disgusting tail moves and the rat is struggling in John’s hand and isn’t dead or even injured at all.

 

A great sigh of relief escapes Dean as John offers Samuel the little vermin. The boy scoops it up, clutches the squirming thing to his chest and John looks hurt.

 

“Did you honestly think I was going to hurt it?” he says, and Samuel shivers, backs away. John stands, reaches out towards his son but the boy jerks away when John tries to touch his cheek. “I’m sorry,” John says quietly and holy fuck John just apologised to someone and it’s something Dean never thought possible. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” and closes his hand, drops it to his side. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.” John nods to each of them, and leaves.

 

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes, and becomes aware of a pain in his shoulder. It turns out to be Bobby, clutching at the muscle so tight Dean knows there’ll be an extra set of bruises in the morning. Dean twitches and Bobby blinks, looks down in surprise.

 

“Sorry,” the older man says, “I didn’t realise I was doing that.”

 

“It’s okay, Bobby,” and Bobby shakes his head, scoops up the mess on the table and dumps it back into the first aid kit.

 

“I’m going to hit the hay.”

 

“Goodnight,” and Dean is left alone with Samuel, the boy white as the albino rat and shaking. “Why don’t you put that thing back in its cage? Time we were in bed ourselves.”

 

Samuel shudders, does as he’s told. Dean doesn’t comment when the boy picks up the cage as he follows Dean, even though the cage stinks. He sets the cage in the corner of the guest bedroom, obeys Dean and goes back to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his hands. Then they undress down to boxers, but Samuel keeps the torn shirt on and they lie down in their separate beds, in the dark, and Dean waits. Makes his breath light and shallow, feigns stillness and sleep. Wraps his hand around the base of his favourite knife.

 

Soon the other bed creaks and there’s a scuff of bare foot against the floorboards. Samuel stands over Dean’s bed, and Dean waits to see if the boy wants blood or comfort.

 

It turns out to be comfort; hands gliding smoothly across Dean’s hair, across Dean’s shoulder. He squirms backwards to make room and Samuel slides into bed with him. It’s a tight fit, but Dean’s slept in worse places.

 

“Want me to blow you?” and Dean closes his eyes and that something deep inside hurts even more as Samuel’s mint-flavoured breath touches his face.

 

“Don’t be disgusting. Roll over,” and Dean wraps his arm around his brother.

 

“Don’t you want anything?” Samuel’s voice plaintive and Dean sighs.

 

“Nothing like you’re offering,” and one hand on Samuel, one hand on his knife, Dean goes to sleep.

 

**

 

He snaps awake when Samuel moves, sits up. There’s a split second of disorientation before Dean realises the flat grey light filling the room is dawn. Samuel holds the knife in his hand- _Samuel holds Dean’s knife in his hand_ \- and a pulse of adrenaline floods through Dean’s system. It’s a trick of the light that makes Samuel’s eyes seem so much darker, like they’re brown instead of green and the boy looks down on Dean like he’s studying a particularly fascinating insect.

 

“Who are you?” the voice mild, the expression mild, and knife held easily and comfortably with a confidence that Dean has not seen before.

 

“I’m Dean, Samuel. Remember?”

 

The boy blinks, frowns a little. “Samuel. Oh. I see.”  He hands the knife back and lies down, goes to sleep facing Dean.

 

Leaving Dean shaken and confused, staring at the stranger lying in his bed.

 


	9. A Second Chance for a Simple Kiss

 

_a second chance for a simple kiss._  
 _I waited for you at the edge_  
 _could you take such a risk?_  
 _on your knees. on your back._  
 _who’d you call when things got bad?_  
 _did they answer? did you ask?_  
 _‘cause I would answer — I would tell you this_

_who is to say_  
 _who is to know the truth_  
 _when no one is left and nothing they said can save you_  
 _who is to say_  
 _who is to blame_

 

-‘Weightless’ Black Lab

 

 

 

 

Fingers gliding up and down his flank, nails scraping at bare skin between his t-shirt and boxers. Soft puff of breath at his throat and Dean slowly surfaces as a soft mop of hair tucks itself underneath his chin.

 

“Hey,” and Samuel’s hand flexes in Dean’s as he gently pushes it away. “Morning, princess.”

 

Samuel sighs. “Morning.”

 

They lie like that for a while, and it’s sort of comfortable, sort of not. Dean worries vaguely about his morning wood because it’s just the type of thing that Samuel misunderstands.

 

“Your ear looks like a dog mauled it,” the boy’s mouth against Dean’s throat. “It’s gross.”

 

“Yeah, well, so’s your face.”

 

“You’re such a jerk.”

 

“I know I am,” Dean says. Samuel’s hand moves again, heading lower and Dean gently pushes it down into the mattress. There’s an irritated huff.

 

“What’s wrong with you?”

 

“I think the question is more what’s wrong with _you?”_ Samuel sits up, stares down at Dean in affront. “Dude. Morning breath.”

 

“I’m not the one who set out to screw some strange slut I’d never met before,” self righteous and prissy and Samuel rolls out of bed, hunts around for his jeans. “It’s disgusting. _You’re_ disgusting.”

 

“Wait. Am I getting a lecture in sexual morality from a _male prostitute?”_

 

“Fuck you,” Samuel snaps. He pulls on his jeans and flings the door open.

 

“And clean this cage out, it stinks!” Dean yells.

 

The door slams shut, but not before the boy gives the one fingered salute. Dean shakes his head, stretches out the knots in his shoulders. He’s sore from fighting and sharing the cramped bed hadn’t helped. The morning air is chilly as he pushes back the blankets and he gets dressed quickly and pads into the bathroom. The boy’s right; Dean’s ear is gross, black and blue and deformed, painful when touched but it doesn’t feel like the cartilage is broken. He brushes his teeth, washes his face and takes a piss. Then he follows the smell of eggs into the kitchen, where Bobby is cooking breakfast.

 

“Morning, Bobby,” Dean says, and gets a grunt in response. He keeps going, through the door and outside, where John and Samuel stand, squinting at each other in the bright sunlight and scowling as Samuel smokes. “Morning.”

 

John glances at Dean, jerks his head in greeting before turning back to stare at Samuel as the boy lights another cigarette from the butt of the first. It’s easy to see why John is so annoyed; Samuel is still wearing that torn whore shirt, hanging from one shoulder, exposing more scars than it covers. The boy’s eyes are narrowed, his jaw set. He’s a .44 Magnum revolver shy of saying, _go ahead, make my day._ Dean just wants to smack the both of them.

 

“So how are we today?” Dean gives them his best fake smile but the effort is wasted. John scowls harder and Samuel keeps smoking like he holds a personal grudge against the cigarette.

 

“I don’t like you doing that,” John says, and Samuel sneers.

 

 _“Don’t. Fuck. With an addict,”_ deep-chested snarl, Samuel’s eyes flat and vicious and holy crap. Dean actually takes a step back. For a second John looks furious, but then he laughs. He’s still laughing as he goes back inside, leaving Samuel and Dean to stare after him.

 

“Your father’s fucking weird,” Samuel says, shaking his head.

 

“You father too,” Dean replies.

 

Samuel heaves a great sigh. “You are delusional.” The boy drops his cigarette butt down on the ground and casts a longing look at the scrub around the house. “I don’t suppose today is the day you get back in contact with reality?”

 

“I’m not letting you go, dude.”

 

“Oh, fuck you,” Samuel snaps, and stalks inside.

 

Inside is breakfast and Dean is starving. Baked beans and scrambled eggs but no bacon, and Dean opens his mouth to complain but then he finds himself glancing at Samuel and thinking, _long pork,_ before he can quite help himself. His stomach gives a little twist but quickly settles. It takes a lot to put Dean off his food.

 

Dean sits. The meal that follows is tense but cordial. At first Samuel only nibbles lightly at a corner of toast but the nibbles turn into little bites and then rapidly evolve into large ones and before any of them quite realise it, Samuel has metamorphosed into an all-devouring octopus, a beast with many arms roving all over the table in search of food. Dean watches, thoroughly impressed and going by their faces, John and Bobby feel the same way. The boy even makes a grab for Dean’s plate. Hell with that. Dean hunches over his food and starts shovelling, glaring and smacking any fingers that stray too close. Bobby manfully gives up his plate. John attempts to hand his over as well but is contemptuously ignored.

 

The last heel of bread disappears down Samuel’s gullet. The boy burps in satisfaction. John toys idly with the last few beans on his own plate, eyes thoughtful.

 

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” the older man says eventually. Samuel looks angry and miserable, like he’s lost some sort of competition. “I think you’re well enough to put some work in. What do you think, Bobby?”

 

“Work?” Samuel blinks, a knowing smirk crossing his face. “Oh, so here it comes.”

 

“Yeah,” Bobby says. He looks at Samuel. “Gonna work you hard, boy,” and Samuel smiles coldly, tugs his ripped shirt open a little wider.

 

“That’s right,” John is grinning. “You’re going to work for that food.”

 

Samuel stretches, long and slow. If he had tits he’d be sticking them out. “No point working on an empty stomach.”

 

“That’s right.” The look on Bobby’s face is downright evil. “I’ve got ten cars that need a full detail before they go out to the sales yard. So you’d better hop to it.”

 

“Wait, what?” Bobby and John rise and advance as the boy begins to panic. “That’s not funny. Not funny. Dean!”

 

“Bye bye, Samuel,” Dean waves as Samuel is dragged away. The screen door slams shut on the boy’s yelps and Dean is left alone in the blissful quiet.

 

Dean is the first to admit he’s not very domestic in any sense of the word, but the rules for staying in Bobby’s house were established a long time ago: do the dishes, do the laundry, clean the bathroom, do some work out in the junkyard, don’t complain about Bobby’s cooking. There’s a full hamper of dirty clothes next to the battered washing machine and Dean adds his own dirty clothes and John’s to the heap. He finds the stack of worn secondhand clothing that John had bought for Samuel and adds it to everything else on general principles. Then he goes to check Samuel’s gym bag in case anything escaped John’s bonfire.

 

The room stinks of rat piss when Dean walks in and he wrinkles his nose in disgust, props the door open against the wall and wrestles with the heavy, dusty curtains to get the window open as well. The albino rat slithers out of its den, utterly fearless of Dean as it swarms up the side of the cage, clings there and subjects him to its creepy, red, bulging-eyed stare.

 

“Don’t look at me,” Dean tells it. “I’m not going to feed you. I think you’re disgusting.”

 

The rat climbs a little higher, legs splayed, vents and prominent nipples on full display.

 

“I can see what he likes about you. You’re both absolutely shameless, do you know what? Disgusting,” and Dean kneels down beside Samuel’s gym bag. Inside is a stack of books, a hairbrush, a battered notebook shedding papers from a worn binding. With a faint stab of guilt, Dean flicks through it. It’s mostly Latin, with sketches here and there, little knots of runes. It looks a lot like John’s journal, come to think of it. Towards the end there’s a sketch of the blonde girl, Jessica, the one who was there when Samuel was kidnapped, crude and amateurish but kinda cute. A gap where pages have been torn out. Then there’s long lists, often several pages long, of dates, names or terse and unflattering physical descriptions, and dollar amounts. It takes a while for Dean to click, but when he does he flushes in anger and embarrassment. It’s a record of Samuel’s customers and it’s horrible. Especially the places where there’s no money, but rather, ‘breakfast’ or ‘dinner’ or ‘a packet of cigarettes’ and worst of all, the places where it says, ‘wouldn’t pay. Bashed’. Dean snaps the book shut, throws it hard at the wall. The cage rattles loudly as the rat bolts for its den and Dean breathes hard through his nose, focuses on the smell of rat piss to keep himself from hitting something.

 

 _Wouldn’t pay._ _Bashed._

Jesus _fuck._

It takes tremendous self discipline not to take a lighter to the journal and burn it. All those perverts, and Samuel selling himself for less than the cost of a cheap meal. _Wouldn’t pay._ _Bashed._ How many times has Samuel been raped? Dean lets his breath out slowly, hissing through his teeth. Irrationally, it’s Samuel that Dean wants to hurt, wants to shake some basic common sense into the boy for making himself so vulnerable. For turning himself into a disposable person. For making himself available to monsters.

 

Then Dean remembers the scars, and Meg’s black eyes as she screamed for Samuel. There’s monsters and then there’s monsters.

 

Closing his eyes, Dean just sits for a minute. Concentrates on his breathing and visualises taking apart the Impala’s gearbox and putting it back together again. Envisages each individual part, rolling it over in his mind’s eye and sliding it against the other parts. When his heart finally slows down Dean opens his eyes and gets back to work. He gathers up the journal and tucks the loose pages back inside. He sets it on the stack of books- mostly fiction and a pretty weird mix at that, torn and dirty like they’ve been rescued from rubbish bins, although two or three books are newer and prettier and with pictures of rats on the cover and titles like, _Care and Feeding..._ \- and goes back to Samuel’s gym bag. There’s a couple of hooded sweatshirts that John obviously deemed respectable enough to keep. Socks and jocks and a pair of tracksuit pants. It’s all of a tangled mess and Dean gets tired of trying to tug things free. Finally he upends the bag and shakes until everything falls out. There’s an iPod, probably stolen, one headphone caught in a tear in the lining. The tear gets bigger as Dean pulls the headphone free and the sunlight shines through the dirt and the cheap plastic fabric, and there’s a shadow where a shadow shouldn’t be. There’s something hidden there.

 

John taught Dean a lot of things, but a respect for other people’s property isn’t one of them.

 

It takes a little effort to get the folded piece of paper out without tearing the lining further. Just because he has no respect for Samuel’s property it doesn’t mean that he wants to destroy it. When he finally works the paper free, it turns out to be a folded photograph. Samuel and a bunch of other kids, staring grimly at the camera. They look to be no more than thirteen or fourteen and Samuel’s in the middle of a particularly tight knot with two girls, arms tangled around each other. All of the kids look familiar, one of Samuel’s girls in particular.

 

“I know you.”

 

Going to Bobby’s study, Dean tugs on the projector screen and it rolls itself up. The chart of Samuel’s brothers and sisters looks like something out of a detective show. Dean mutters, “Goddamn it,” because that familiar girl in Samuel’s arms is in fact Ava, the girl that was skinned, whose final photographs were taken in an autopsy room. He compares each kid in Samuel’s photograph to the photographs pined on the wall until there’s a name for each. It feels like a penance. It’s even worse when he realises that all but four of the kids from Samuel’s photograph are confirmed dead. There’s something strange about the shots of Samuel as well; something hard to pin down, chameleon-like.

 

Dean shakes his head, considers putting Samuel’s photograph up with the others, but he honestly can’t see the use of it and Samuel would be furious. In the end, he carefully returns it to its former hiding place. Hopefully the boy would never realise it had been found.

 

He’s just about done with the chores by lunchtime, when the others come stomping in to the bread and cold chicken he’s laid out on the table. John bullies Samuel into the bathroom to wash the grease and muck off while Bobby washes up in the laundry. There’s a beautiful gravel rash down Samuel’s arm and that whore shirt of his is filthy and barely hanging in place.

 

“That jerk knocked me down,” Samuel says, glaring at Bobby resentfully.

 

“You shouldn’t have tried to run,” Bobby says mildly as he assembles a sandwich.

 

“I don’t want to be here.”

 

John and Bobby utterly ignore him and concentrate on their food. Dean pretends to concentrate as well but he’s starting to wonder: is keeping Samuel here with them the right thing to do?

 

**

 

After lunch Dean prods Samuel through the hall and back to their room.

 

“Keep going,” Dean says when Samuel begins to bitch. “I don’t care how tired you are, princess. You’re cleaning out that damn cage. There’s no way in hell I’m sleeping in there tonight with that stink.”

 

 _“Deeeeean,”_ and oh god, it’s that unholy whine again and it rubs itself along Dean’s raw nerves like sandpaper.

 

“I said move it!” There’s a yelp as Dean’s fingers jab between Samuel’s ribs. The boy glares resentfully at Dean and flounces forward in a snit. The smell is worse than ever as they enter the room, and the rat is biting the bars of its cage as it tries to reach Samuel. “Don’t come out until the cage is clean. I have to go talk to Dad.”

 

“Wait,” says Samuel. He lunges towards his gym bag. Dean had made no attempt to cover his tracks, and the books are still piled on the floor. “You fucker, have you been going through my stuff?”

 

“Yeah. I was looking for dirty clothes.”

 

“Did you-”

 

“Go through your diary, princess? Yes. Yes, I did. Very educational.”

 

“You prick,” Samuel hisses, eyes slitted like a basilisk, “You had no right.”

 

“Oh, don’t worry. I just flipped through it. Didn’t actually read it.

 

“What, too many long words for you, you sub-literate mouth-breather?”

 

Dean stares at Samuel. “Why were there pages torn out? Anything you didn’t want someone else seeing?”

 

“I didn’t fucking tear them out.”

 

“Then who did?”

 

“Ask the psycho.”

 

“All right,” Dean says agreeably. “I’ll do that.” He steps outside, quickly shutting the door. There’s a thud as something heavy strikes it from the other side. Probably a book. What a geek. Dean shakes his head.

 

“Hey Dad,” John’s in the living room, scribbling in his own journal. He grunts in greeting and keep scribbling.

 

“I found something interesting in Samuel’s bag today.”

 

“The photograph. Yes. I saw it earlier.”

 

“I also found his journal.”

 

John hesitates, eyes flicking up. He deliberately finishes the sentence before shutting the book and setting it aside. “I’ve seen it. It’s...interesting reading.”

 

“He’s pretty smart, isn’t he?”

 

“To be honest with you, Dean, I think he’s a borderline genius.” Dean raises his eyebrows and the corner of John’s mouth twitches up. “Did you read it?”

 

“My Latin isn’t good enough to have read it all in the time I had.”

 

“All of those kids...his ‘brothers and sisters’...were brilliant. And since he’s one of the last survivors, and was the only one able to escape besides...”

 

“He’s _really_ smart, then.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Huh.” There’s an itch in the small of Dean’s back and he twists to scratch it. As he does, his eye happens to fall on John’s open backpack. Just visible inside is a jumble of cigarettes in Samuel’s favourite brand. “So, hey, I noticed that a bunch of pages was missing out of that journal. I wonder what he wanted to hide?”

 

“No idea,” John says, “But the pages either side of it were notes on tricks. It was probably just more of the same.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “Well, I better get back to watching him. Boy’s trouble.”

 

“See you at dinner,” and John goes back to his writing.

 

Dean fully expects Samuel to try and jump him as he goes back to their room, but the boy just flashes a brilliant smile and goes back to picking pits of urine-sodden paper out of the rat cage. Dean feels cold fingers tapping down his spine. The boy is planning something, and Dean rifles through the blankets, checking for booby traps before he sits down.

 

"So," he begins, but Samuel spins around and drops something into Dean's lap.

 

It's the rat.

 

A surprising weight for such a little thing; a body like a furnace sitting on chilly, bony, sharp claws, a tiny heart pounding with unexpected power. The rat turns its bulging eyes towards Dean's face _and holy shit-fuck there's a rat sitting in his lap._

 

It takes Dean a few seconds of silent terror to find his voice, and when he does, he screams.

 

 The rat jumps straight into the air, legs splayed. Dean yells again when it touches down. The second leap propels it a full metre through the air, into Samuel's waiting arms. The little shit breaks out into peals of laughter and Dean jumps up, scrabbling at the places where the rat had touched him. There's an almighty crash as Bobby kicks the door open, gun in hand, and John's not far behind.

 

"What happened?" and Dean's speechless with fear and embarrassment. He shoots a venomous glare at Samuel and stalks out, leaving them to sort it out amongst themselves.

 

He goes and shoots at Bobby's homemade targets for a while, crude bullseyes and hanging tennis balls and sacks of sand swinging in the breeze. It's a waste of ammo but fuck it, he'll break into his emergency stash and buy more if he has to, because there's a choice between shooting targets and smacking Samuel in the face. He methodically and ruthlessly annihilates eight tennis balls, nine sacks of sand and ten defenceless sheets of cardboard. He's just deciding whether or not to go hunting for more when there's a crunch of gravel, and Bobby comes up beside him. Dean refuses to meet the older man's eyes. He keeps his eyes on the remaining ammo, counting the rounds, and decides that it's prudent to stop for the day. Bobby clears his throat.

 

"So you still don't like rats, huh?"  
  
"I can think about them. I can watch them. I can smell them. I can even sleep in the same room as one and its horrible pink foetuses. Just don't ever, ever," he shudders, "Make me _touch_ one. Jesus Christ!" he yells, "It was a rat! A goddamn rat sitting in my goddamn _lap! In my lap! A fucking rat!"_ He kicks the ground, hard.

 

Bobby raises an eyebrow. "That make you feel better, boy?"

 

Dean takes a deep, calming breath. "Yes. Yes, it did. Thank you."

 

"Glad to hear it." Bobby turns to go, but stops when Dean calls his name.

 

"Can I use your computer?"

 

"Download any viruses and I'll have you scrubbing the toilet with your own toothbrush, understood?"

 

"Yeah, Bobby." Bobby leaves, and Dean starts stripping down and cleaning the guns.

 

By the time he's done it's late afternoon, the shadows stretching across the ground. Dean wanders back inside, stopping to stick his head inside the fridge in the hopes of finding a snack. There's a plate of cold sausages and he eats one in a greasy satisfying mouthful, swallows it down and stuffs another in his mouth to give it company. He's searching for something sweet, hoping for a forgotten slice of pie when he sees a bit of paper towel wedged behind a graveyard of glass jars. It's the stillborn rat kittens that he'd kept and set aside for Samuel and then promptly forgot about. He shudders and the cold sausage in his stomach turns over. Gnawed foetuses for desert! It is tempting- so tempting- to just throw the things in the rubbish and be done with them, but in the end, he wraps the horrible things back in the paper towel and takes them with him into Bobby's study.

 

He places the little package as far away as possible on the desk and sits down in the ancient office chair. The fan whirs as the computer comes out of standby, the old box monitor crackling with static. Clicking on Firefox, Dean half-heartedly goes through the bookmarks, looking for porn. If there's any there it's well-hidden, and Dean isn't surprised. Bobby may be an indifferent housekeeper but in certain ways he's downright fastidious. Man lives like a monk. 

 

Dean googles: prostitution, underage prostitution, forced prostitution, child abuse, child sexual abuse, trauma, poverty, homelessness. What he gets is terrifying. Dean's seen some horrible things in his life but what humans do to each other he will never understand. What's even more terrifying is that he gets his pornography after all; the porn sites outnumber the information, support and survivors sites three to one. Dean is by no means a prude. He clicks on one of the porn sites and reads the advertisements. 

 

"Wotcher reading?" Samuel leans over Dean's shoulder, the boy's shaggy hair tickling Dean's cheek. He pushes the boy away, but Samuel's hand snakes out, steals the mouse. "'From the streets of New York to the streets of San Francisco, every city has its fair share of the homeless and desperate. Watch as we give jobs to the jobless! Case file number one: Casey from Phoenix. She's been homeless since ten and there's absolutely nothing she won't do! First we put cigarettes out on her arms-'"

 

"You can about fucking stop there, Samuel," Dean snarls, taking the mouse back. There's anger, slow but deep, restlessly coiling and uncoiling in his gut.

 

"This is a bit more hardcore than I expected. I honestly didn't think you had it in you."

 

There's a meaty thud as Dean's fist connects with Samuel's mouth. Dean pulls the punch at the very last second, but there's still enough force to knock Samuel on the ground. "Get up." He grabs a fistful of shirt and hauls Samuel up and into the computer chair. The last remnants of the whore shirt finally give up the ghost and Samuel drops the last few centimetres. Dean is left with the shreds. He leans in very close and stares the boy hard in the eyes. "If I signed up on this... _thing,_ would I see your face there?"

 

"No."

 

"Is that the truth?" Dean doesn't blink, and Samuel doesn't flinch.

 

"Yes."

 

"Has anyone ever tried to do something like that to you?"  
  
"Yeah."

 

"What happened?"

 

"I managed to get the camera off them," Samuel's eyes are utterly blank, "Then I ran."

 

There's a sudden pain in Dean's jaw. He's grinding his teeth so hard he tastes blood and he hadn't even realised he was doing it. "I'm sorry I tore your shirt," he says, standing up. He offers the pitiful shreds to Samuel, who hesitates before taking them. The boy's watching Dean like he's watching a venomous snake. "So was that the only time it happened?"

 

"The only time with a camera."

 

"Okay," Dean says evenly, "Did no one try to help you?"

 

Samuel's mouth twists. "There's always someone who thinks he's a fucking hero."

 

"All right, Samuel." Dean curls his fingers gently but firmly around Samuel's naked shoulders, the scarred flesh warm under chilly fingers. “Listen to me very carefully. You are not going back there. You’re going to go to school, or do a trade, or something. You’re not going back to the streets. You’re not street walking any more. You’re not going to let anyone do those things to you again. Understand me?”

 

“That’s very sweet of you,” Samuel smirks. Then the smirk fades and he just looks tired. “I chose to be there. I knew the risks before I got there. And I had nowhere else to go.”

 

“You’ve got us,” Dean blurts out, and Samuel sets his hand against Dean’s chest and pushes the older brother gently but firmly away.

 

“You don’t understand,” Samuel says sadly, “Even if I wanted to stay I couldn’t. Father would just kill you too.”

 

There’s a scuff at the door and they look up to see Bobby. “Dinner’s in five,” he says curtly, and turns away. The moment is broken. Dean looks up at the ceiling, feeling embarrassed. The chair creaks as Samuel gets up and stretches.

 

“I have something I forgot to give you.” Dean takes the bundle of paper towel and offers it. Samuel eyes it suspiciously.

 

“What is it?”

 

“It’s the three babies that your vermin murdered.”  
  
“She’s not vermin,” Samuel sulks, “And she only killed them because she knew there was something wrong with them and they wouldn’t survive. It’s what does do.” He frowns. “And there should only be two.”

 

“How do you know that? Did you see them?”

 

“Of course not.”

 

Dean slaps his forehead. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, I forgot. There’s only two. So, do you want to go bury ‘em decently or something? Maybe have a little Viking funeral?”

 

“You’re so weird,” Samuel tells him, but Dean gets the feeling that the boy’s happy he asked.

 

**

 

There’s a nasty-sounding click in Dean’s shoulders as he stretches, and the ancient bed creaks underneath him. He yawns and tries to roll over, stops when his injured ear throbs. He settles on his other side. Exhaustion washes over him and he barely stirs when Samuel slips into bed with him, pushing him back towards the wall. Quite without realising it, Dean brings his arm about the boy and he’s sliding into sleep when something prods at him.

 

“Samuel?” he slurs, not quite awake.

 

"What?"

 

“Are you always Samuel?”

 

“What the hell sort of question is that?” but Dean’s already sleeping.

 


	10. A Peculiar Choreography

_Put your arms around my neck_   
_just like a pathetic lace of death_   
_displays like a tarot deck_   
_I am the card of the hanged man_

_and here I stand_   
_with a flame on my hand_   
_do you understand?_

_If there is hope for me_   
_she is flirting with the breeze_   
_on a peculiar choreography_   
_with the dead arms of some old southern tree_

 'The Hanged Man' - Moonspell

 

“Wake up!”

 

Dean goes instantly from deep sleep to full awareness. Samuel whimpers a little on the mattress beside him, and when he looks up there’s John, eyes flat and vicious in the dawn light.

 

“Get up,” John spits, “Get dressed, get your weapons and come outside.”

 

A stray elbow hits Samuel in the stomach as Dean scrambles to obey, and the boy grunts and curls into a tighter ball. John’s face is a stony mask and Dean can’t stop himself from cringing, expecting a blow or a curse that never comes.  The night had been cold so both he and Samuel had worn track pants and soft shirts to bed, but clothed or not, it still looks bad. Samuel has no concept of ordinary standards of morality and Dean is promiscuous, and while sharing a bed is not proof of sexual activity, it does make for a convincing argument.

 

“This isn’t what it looks like-” Dean starts to say, but John just barks impatiently.

 

“You too, Samuel, get dressed.” Samuel fixes John with a malevolent eye, but grudgingly obeys.  John is wired, shifting from foot to foot and Dean knows that a hunt is in the air. There will be questions to answer later, but there are priorities right now. Dean is just sliding on his heavy boots as Samuel, dawdling, pulls a heavy shirt on over his sleeping shirt. John’s hand snaps out, fetches Samuel a hard cuff to the back of his neck. The boy hisses like a goddamned snake but moves faster after that and when he’s finally dressed, John bulliesthe pair of them down the hallway and into the kitchen where Bobby is pacing up and down. Dean already has his favourite Colt and Bobby gives him a flask of holy water to go with it. “Give me your hands,” John demands, and Samuel hesitates before obeying. A flash of silver as John locks handcuffs over the bandages that the boy’s still wearing from his first day here and then he pushes the boy forward. Dean and Bobby sling two rifles apiece over their shoulders, and follow.

 

They move quickly and rapidly through the junkyard. John is completely silent; Samuel’s face is set, utterly no apprehension showing, like he already knows exactly where they’re going and what to expect when they get there, but he keeps glancing sideways at Dean as though making sure he’s still there. Dean has the nagging fear that they’re heading towards a grave, that John is going to shoot both of his sons for assumed crimes against nature. He grips his rifle a little tighter.

 

They come upon it quickly enough at any rate; at the edges of the junkyard is a line of scrap iron packed in salt, a foot wide and buried three feet down in a perfect unbroken circle around the property. Dean knows this because he spent one bastard summer years ago, his depth perception shot and his injured eye healing, constructing it in exchange for bed and board. He’s helped maintain it ever since. And just beyond this invisible line, where the scrub begins and a few diseased trees persist despite long-term petrochemical poisoning, something has left a present and a message for them all.

 

Hanging from the tallest of the trees about the property is a corpse placed with exquisite attention to aesthetics. The man has been skinned and gutted and hung by the neck by something that is very likely a length of his own small intestine. His face twisted into a grimace of indescribable pain and Dean knows, just knows that the victim was alive and conscious throughout the skinning and vivisection.  His genitals have been left intact, the skin around them incised in a perfect circle. A number of human internal organs are stung from the branches on bits of wire. Part of the tree trunk has been removed, cut perfectly smooth and flat like melon after a razor, and this smooth surface has been scored with twisting, nasty sigils that suck at the eye like a loose tooth sucks at the socket.

 

It looks like it belongs in a museum of modern art or at the very least a _Hellraiser_ movie, and it’s the worst thing Dean has ever seen.

 

“Say something,” John whispers, turning to look at Samuel. The boy stares back with an expression of utter calm. “Say something!”  The boy flinches, hunches down further on himself, but his stony expression doesn’t change.

 

Dean licks his lips. “Samuel. What do the sigils say?”

 

The boy draws a quick breath, pushes it out noisily through his nose. Then another, and another, as if he’s about to hyperventilate but his voice is perfectly even when he tells them, “They say that you’re going to die. You’re all going to die.”

 

“What else?” Bobby asks. “There’s more to it than that.”

 

“If you know that, why don’t you translate it yourself?” Samuel snaps.

 

“I’m asking you.”

 

“It says,” Samuel falters, licks his lips. “It says that it’s a present for me.”

 

John bites out, “Odd kind of present, don’t you think?”  Samuel shakes his head, doesn’t reply.

 

“We need to get this down before someone sees it,” Bobby says. “I have to open the gates in an hour.”

 

John unlocks one of Samuel’s handcuffs and slides it through a car frame before putting it back on the boy’s wrist. Samuel leans against the metal, saying nothing, just watching, the careful blankness of his face slipping only now and again.

 

John goes and fetches a wheelbarrow and a ladder, rubber gloves and aprons, while Dean takes photographs of the corpse, sigils and gruesome mobile. Bobby prowls around with rifle in hand, but it’s pretty clear that whatever left the mess is long gone.

 

“Wouldn’t it be easier to chop the tree down and burn everything?” Dean asks when John reappears, but the older man shakes his head.

 

“Sometimes sigils like this are a spell that’s waiting to be activated. Sometimes that means burning is the last thing you want to do with it.” John props the ladder against the tree, where the rough bark is still there, and gives Dean the eyebrow. It takes Dean a second to catch on, but when he does he shudders.

 

“Dude. Seriously. I don’t want to go up there. Why me?”  
  
“Because you’re the lightest of us,” John snaps.  “Do it.”

 

Whining under his breath, Dean takes the bolt cutters that John offers him, sheds his jacket and clambers up the rickety ladder, the sickly tree shuddering underneath him at every step. He hooks a leg over the first branch, looking carefully for any extra marks or sigils, but there’s nothing, not so much as a lone smear of blood, as if some giant tied the hanging corpse  in place using only height and strength.

 

There’s a series of nasty-sounding creaks and groans as Dean clambers from branch to branch before  inching timidly towards the corpse and everything else, but it holds as Dean cuts the lines that tie the human organs in place. He swallows, hard, and there’s so much he would give to be back in the rat-piss stinking room that Samuel and him share, than up in a dying tree with something that used to be human and now is only rotten meat. From the ground the lines looked like bloodied wire but it isn’t; too smooth and sticky to be string and last night’s dinner stirs and burns the back of his throat as he realises that in all likelihood he’s looking at arteries or major nerves. Give them points for thrift, but he’d never wanted to see Hellraiser in real life. It’s hard to see all of the ties from his perspective, and he follows John’s directions from string to string. There are thuds as each organ drops into the grass below.

 

The tree strains and groans as Dean finally edges towards the corpse itself, hanging from the edge of the branch. It bobs obscenely with each flex of the branch and the rough bark scratches at his hands and twigs and leaves scratch at his face. He reaches out with the bolt cutters to the rubbery length of intestine and something in him shrinks backward and he realises that he can’t do it. The smell of the corpse, the way the organs bounced on the ground. This corpse will not bounce. It will hit the ground with a crunch of breaking bones and a wet slap of raw flesh, and he can’t do it. Dean’s mouth works, his shoulders seize up and he can’t do it. He just can’t.

 

“Dean.”

 

Dean flinches and hunches down, shutting his eyes so he doesn’t have to see either the corpse or his father’s disappointed face. The tip of the bolt cutters is tapping against the wood, making a dull _thunkthunkthunk_ noise. It takes Dean a second to realise that it’s because his hand is shaking. He waits for John to curse or bark orders, but instead John starts talking to him in a way he hasn’t heard since Mary died.  

 

“I know it’s pretty horrible. I know it’s bad. If I could I’d go up there instead of you, but I’m too heavy.  That tree can’t take much more and you need to get it done and get down before it breaks. Neither of us may ever know what his name was. But no matter who he was or what he did he needs to be buried properly. We have to say the rites, we have to burn the corpse. Cut him down, Dean. Cut him down.”

 

Dean grits his teeth and reaches out, cuts at the tight intestine but his aim is off and he only scores the wood. The second time only nicks at the tissue and the third cuts the wood again. His hands are shaking so much he can barely hold the cutters and he swears and grips the handles hard, shoves the blade under the loop and cuts savagely. Success; the tree groans and the branch rocks up as the corpse drops to the ground. He clings to the branch, eyes shut tight and drops the bolt cutters after the corpse. Pure hatred makes his chest burn; hatred for John, for putting him in this position; hatred for Samuel for being the cause of it all; hatred for the poor bastard he just cut down; hatred even for Bobby’s whose tree he’s in. Most of all, hatred for the monsters who did this awful thing. If he believed in God, he’d hate Him too. 

 

The tree groans again, but this time with a definite undertone of splinter. Dean scrambles backward as quickly as he dares. There’s a sharp crack as he hastily scrambles off that branch and onto another, splinters digging into his hands and tearing at his jeans. The whole tree shudders and he swears as he lets do and drops the last three metres to the ground.

 

John is already bent over the mass of flesh, probing at it with a length of wire and Dean just cannot deal with it right now. He catches sight of Samuel, slumped against the car frame and looking like a yearlong insomniac and all that bile suddenly rises up. If it weren’t for Samuel, none of this would have happened. If it weren’t for Samuel, the meat that was a man would probably still be alive. All that’s wrong in the world is because of Samuel, and Dean spits the bile out.

 

“You like this, huh? This present your family’s given you? Huh? Like it?” The boy seems so light as Dean grabs him by the collar, hauls him upright. “This how you get your kicks?” Samuel hunches in on himself. He will not look Dean in the eye, and Dean’s rage gets even stronger. “Answer me. Fucking answer me! Is this what gets you going?” A hollow thud as Dean picks Samuel up and slams him against the car frame. “This what gets you going, you damned whore?” Thud. _“For Christ’s sake, answer me!”_

 

Thud.

 

Thud.

 

Samuel finally makes a noise, a choked sort of whimper. The boy’s eyes are squeezed shut and there’s finally an expression on his face. Looks a lot like fear.

 

Samuel tries to curl into a ball but only ends up dangling by his cuffs. Dean backs off, breathing hard. Stubble rasps as he rubs at his mouth and he turns away. And finds himself meeting John’s intense stare, quite without intending to. It’s so confronting that Dean actually takes a step backwards. The older man smiles coldly and bends back over the corpse, leaving Dean shaken.

 

And suddenly it clicks: this whole thing is engineered.

 

Not the Hellraiser mobile specifically, but the whole thing reeks of a setup. Bobby’s place isn’t quite the best defended place in hunter circles, but it’s certainly impressive and most importantly, he’s one of the few prepared to work with John. John also knows that whatever is hunting Samuel was bound to come looking for him. John knows also knows how Dean reacts. He had to have known what would happen after making Dean do something so awful. He had to have known that Dean would lash out at Samuel.

 

This place is a trap, Samuel is the bait, and this whole thing is planned to put the boy under as much stress as possible.

 

Holy _shit._

 

As soon as the thought comes, Dean stamps on it. John’s distant but he’s never that cold. He’s keeping a few secrets but it’s for the good of his boys. It’s all for the best; everything is happening for the best. Dean feels even sicker than he did before but he cannot, will not see John as the villain.

 

Bobby comes trotting back from his patrol, scowling ferociously. “I ain’t found nothing,” he spits.

 

All the photographs have been taken, the area inspected for clues. Nothing left but to put on the oil-stained gloves and aprons and clean up. The corpse is a lot heavier than Dean expected, especially considering it’s been skinned and gutted. The three men pick it up and put it in the wheelbarrow. Slow-drying flesh sticks to rubber, and Dean retches when he realises that the yellow bit of tissue that won’t come off his gloves is actually a piece of lymph node.

 

They wheel the corpse back to one of Bobby’s several boltholes, a dry little underground chamber, cold enough to keep the corpse until dark and put the whole mass of flesh under a cloth. Then Bobby goes and fetches some buckets of sand to throw over the blood, while Dean hangs a ratty old tarp over the sigils in such a way that it looks like the wind blew it into place there. Given the indifferent level of housekeeping in the junkyard, it doesn’t look out of place in the slightest.

 

John is bent over the organs, turning them over, peering at them. “Unless the guy was some kinda mutant, at least two of these livers came from other people,” he tells them, and Dean curses, kicks at a car door panel.

 

“I have to open up. Get these in with the rest of the mess,” Bobby says before stalking off.

 

Dean takes Samuel back to the house while John finishes the clean up. He takes the boy straight to the bathroom and handcuffs him to the towel rack by one hand. There’s a desperate need to have a shower, all Dean wants to do is be clean again but John’s spent so much time drilling first aid first and look after your hands into his skull that it’s impossible to ignore. He finds the kit stashed underneath the sink and the tiny sterile splinter probes in their packaging. Blood wells up and runs down his palms and wrists as he digs at the splinters and he’s making a mess of it because his hands are shaking too much. Samuel coughs.

 

“You...you want me to do that?” and Dean throws the pick down in disgust.

 

“Shut up,” he spits, and strips. He watches Samuel out of the corner of his eye, waiting, just waiting for a single inappropriate word, movement, even a sigh, but he’s disappointed. The boy just stares at the wall above Dean’s head and Dean gives up, steps into the shower.

 

He soaps up and scrubs himself with the washcloth. He would like to masturbate but his penis flatly refuses to co-operate; maybe it’s the stress of the day, maybe it’s the fact that Samuel is all of three metres away. Either way it’s hopeless and he gives up, turns off the water and towels himself down, climbing into fresh pair of jeans. The towel rack rattles as he frees one of Samuel’s cuffs and something glints on the floor, catching his attention. It’s the splinter probe, on the tiles right next Samuel’s thigh, the needle incongruously clean when Dean had left it bloody.

 

“How did you get this?” Dean scoops it up but the boy has this weird expression on his face like he’s lost his best friend. Samuel’s eyes suspiciously shiny and his face flushed, mouth dark. “I left this on the cabinet. How did you get it?”

 

“It fell,” Samuel says, “You threw it and it bounced,” and something cold presses itself between Dean’s shoulder blades, the memory of the clean, bloodless stretches of tree branch as though the hanging corpse had been put there by magic. He grabs Samuel by the shoulders, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do, shake the boy maybe but Samuel moves snake-fast. Gangly arm wrapping around Dean’s torso and a violent kiss that tastes like copper. Dean shouts and kicks out. Samuel falls against the wall, slides to the ground, buries his face in his knees. The shaking of the boy’s shoulders is the only thing that shows he’s crying.

 

Dean steps back, breathing hard. The ancient piping groans as he runs the sink full, and the cold water makes his face ache.

 

“Samuel,” he says, looking at the boy in the mirror, “Did you know the man that was hanging in the tree?”

 

“Yeah,” Samuel’s voice muffled and wet.

 

“Where from?” No answer. “Where did you meet him, Samuel?”

 

“I was in Boston for a while. I met him there.”

 

“Was he...was he a john?”

 

“He didn’t pay me.”

 

“That wasn’t what I asked.” More silence. Dean stares at the reflection of the huddled boy and doesn’t know whether he feels hate or pity. “Samuel. Did he...hurt you?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, he did.”

 

Three livers. One corpse, but three human livers hanging with it. A gift for Samuel.

 

 “And he had friends, too.” It isn’t a question, and Samuel doesn’t bother answering.

 

Raped or beaten or tortured or even all of these things. Samuel just another scarred up, fucked up kid on the street. Easy target. Dean lets the water out of the sink and wipes his face dry. The bathroom floor is cold as charity as he kneels beside the boy, but the boy burns like a furnace as he reaches out, snakes his arm around Dean’s waist and then there’s the wetness of the boy’s mouth pressed against Dean’s abdomen. The ridiculous mop of hair is soft under Dean’s hand as he strokes absently. There’s a creak from the doorway and he looks up to see John, watching them.

 

“You’re really my brother,” Samuel says **.**

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”   

 

“You’re right, you know. I am a damned whore.” Samuel giggles, but the noise finishes with a sob.

 

Dean and John watch each other for a long time. Dean holds Samuel, and no one speaks.


	11. Hard Act to Follow

_You're a hard act to follow_  
 _Such a fine lookin' fellow_  
 _I hear your belly's yellow_  
 _You're a hard act to swallow_  
 _It kind of makes me sick_  
 _The way you turn those tricks_  
 _Come on and light it up_  
 _I wanna feel the rush_  
 _I'll be shooting for thrills when I walk out that door_  
 _You say it's hard to care anymore_  
  
 _Kills, thrills and Sunday pills whoa!_  
 _I’m on a mission to kill_

_Still_

_‘Cause nothin' thrills whoa!_  
  
-‘Hard Act to Follow’ Grinspoon

 

 

 

 

 

Dean paces, up and down, up and down, careful at all times to keep the light between the window and himself so he doesn’t make a silhouette. It’s only a single reading light but it’s enough to throw a shadow against the window, make him visible, make him vulnerable. Out there in the dark: John and Bobby on patrol, standing against the thing hunting Samuel and by extension, hunting all of them. Inside: Samuel tethered to his cast iron bed by means of an ankle chain, the rat and its naked kittens stirring and chirping, and Dean to watch over all of them.

 

“Isn’t it supposed to be your turn to sleep?” Samuel lies on the bed, his forearm flung over his eyes in a very melodramatic sort of way.

 

Dean grunts and keeps pacing. Something’s been bothering him since he came in here for his shift off: the other bed has been made up. Clumsily, but the sheets are clean and unslept in. Bobby would have changed the sheets for John’s turn in it, but John had not slept there. And there’s a brand new bruise riding high on Samuel’s arm, and the bin in the corner has been emptied. Dean tells himself that John probably just spent his downshift cleaning guns or something. Or trying to talk to Samuel. Or maybe just he’d sat and looked at the boy.

 

The smell of fresh gun oil is conspicuously absent.

 

Dean wonders what had been in the bin before it was emptied. The fast food napkins he’d tossed in there when they’d arrived had been grimy, yes, but surely not as offensive as all that.

 

Up and down. Dean paces up and down.

 

“You’re making me dizzy,” Samuel complains.

 

“Stop whining, little bitch.” Dean comes to a halt. He stares at Samuel for long seconds, then comes to a decision. “Get up.”

 

“What?”

 

“I said, get up.” Dean grabs Samuel’s wrist, hauls the boy out of bed. To a steady chorus of complaints, Dean inspects first the sheets and then the blankets. He finds a multitude of longish hairs and ancient marks he didn’t want to think too hard about, but he doesn’t find any fresh bloodstains or –other- types of stains. He feels inexplicably relieved.

 

“What the hell are you doing?”

 

“Nothing,” Dean says flatly. “Go back to sleep.”

 

“Want me to give you a nightcap?” Samuel purrs, strokes the side of Dean’s face. Dean ducks away, snaps the light off.

 

“Good night Samuel,” Dean says, stripping down by feel in the darkness and sliding into his own bed.

 

There’s the sound of a resigned sigh. “Good night, Dean.”

 

Dean goes to sleep.

 

**

 

There’s an anguished, high-pitched squeal and a single, deep sob. Dean has the light snapped on and his gun in his hands before he’s even awake. It’s Samuel, out of bed and kneeling in front of the rat’s cage. The rat itself is struggling in his hand and great tears are running down his face.

 

“Samuel,” Dean says evenly, “What’s the matter?” He lowers the gun to the mattress but keeps hold of it.

 

Samuel snuffles and wipes the back of his hand across his nose, leaving a shining trail of mucus from knuckle to elbow. “Father’s going to kill her.”

 

“It’s just a rat,” says Dean. He is way too tired for Samuel’s shit right now.

 

“It’s what he does. He takes the things you love and makes you watch while he takes them to pieces.” The rat squeals again and licks at Samuel’s fingers, begging. “He’ll torture her for days and days and weeks and months and when she finally dies he’ll slice her up finely and then,” he narrows his eyes, “He’ll make me _eat_ her.”

 

Dean scratches at his stubble, puts the pistol down on his pillow and slides out of bed. “Put the damn thing back in its cage.” The boy just stares as Dean kneels beside him. “You are hurting it. Its babies are probably scared. I’m exhausted and I need to be on patrol in two hours time. C’mon Sammy, just put it back.”

 

“Sammy?” The boy’s grip loosens slightly, enough for the rat to squirm free. Its thrashing tail slaps against Dean’s wrist as it jumps back into the cage and Dean grits his teeth against a shudder. Samuel blinks and an almost dreamy expression comes over his face.

 

“Samuel,” Dean says quickly, “I meant Samuel. I’m tired. I’m sorry.” He closes the door to the cage, makes sure that it clicks shut. He’s tired and when Samuel lunges forward he’s too slow to avoid a sloppy, mucusy kiss. “Godammit,” Dean curses when Samuel’s weight carries them both to the floor.

 

“Stop doing that, you overgrown freak! What part of us being brothers don’t you understand?” One of Samuel’s knees crunches down on Dean’s left hand; the right is trapped under his own back. There’s a sharp pain in his heel as well; it takes him a second to realise that it’s the chain that’s locked around Samuel’s leg, the chain stretched to the end of its length. “Samuel,” Dean says, horror dawning as he realises how utterly pinned and helpless he is, “Let me up. Let me up right now.”

 

“Father’ll slice you into pieces too, Dean,” Samuel purrs. The boy smiles, sharp enough to cut and in the dim light his eyes are almost black. He scrapes a fingernail down Dean’s cheek. “Slice.” Across Dean’s nipple. “Slice.” The fingernail glides lower, and Dean’s testicles abruptly decide to seek better lodgings in the vicinity of his ears. _“Slice.”_ Samuel stares hard into Dean’s eyes and unsnaps the top button of his boxers.

 

“Stop.” Dean beats his heels against the floor. “Please.”

 

Samuel rubs his thumb over Dean’s lip. “Don’t you want poor little Samuel? Even a bit?”

 

“No. Not even a little.” If Dean’s voice breaks on the last syllable he’ll never admit to it, as long as he lives.

 

“Dean,” Samuel says, and the purr is gone just as suddenly as it came. Something sad and resigned crosses his face and suddenly Dean can see the green of the boy’s eyes again. “Dean. Look after my little girl for me, okay? Take her and the babies and run, as far and fast as you can. It probably won’t work but try anyway. Try and get away.” The boy leans close, his breath warm and sleep-sour. He presses a gentle, but chaste kiss against Dean’s temple. “Goodbye, Dean.”

 

Long fingers wind around Dean’s throat, pressing in hard either side of his windpipe and into his carotid arteries. _I’m an idiot,_ Dean thinks, just before it all goes dark.

 

**

 

He wakes up sprawled across the floor with a foul headache and a foul taste in his mouth. When he opens his eyes the first thing he sees is the rat pressed up against the side of its cage, tiny paws gripping the bars as it wiggles its nose at him.

 

“If you’re wondering what I taste like, fucking stop,” he rasps, rolling to his knees. “I ain’t dead. Ngh,” he adds articulately, as the blood rushes to his head and the world turns white. He crawls manfully towards his bed and hauls himself onto it. He retches twice, but nothing comes up but acid.

 

Samuel is gone. So is Dean’s gun. And on the floor is the chain still bolted to Samuel’s bed, but severed by the gunshot that had blown a decent-sized hole in the floorboards. Clouds of fluffy white polyester filling are everywhere, presumably the last surviving remnants of the pillows Samuel had used to muffle the sound of the shot.

 

Dean groans and rubs gingerly at his neck, tries to tell himself that Samuel can’t get far, not with Bobby and John on the trail, but somehow he knows that it doesn’t matter. Samuel is already gone. Just like Samuel’s gym bag. Just like Dean’s gun. And speaking of which, just how did Samuel manage to get hold of said weapon when there was a good five feet between it and Samuel’s longest point of reach when chained?

 

Dean hauls himself to his feet and hunts around for his phone, and finds it tossed carelessly into a corner. It’s been reduced to a small handful of shattered plastic and circuitry, but when he tries to flex his swollen mouth and tongue, force air through his bruised vocal chords he realises that it probably wouldn’t have been much use to him anyway. He staggers out of the bedroom and down the hallway, peering into each of the rooms as he goes. Furniture is overturned here and there, and books are scattered violently about. Samuel is not hiding in the toilet; Samuel is not hiding behind the shower curtain; Samuel is not hiding in the kitchen either, but Bobby is.

 

All that comes out of Dean’s throat is a gasping wheeze as he drops to his knees. Bobby is unconscious, lying face down with his head turned to the side. There’s a tea towel wrapped loosely around his neck and bile in foul-smelling threads down his beard.

 

“Bobby?”

 

Dean grabs the older man, rolls him over. There’s a retch and a gargling noise as Bobby begins to choke on his own vomit. His hands scrabble feebly at his throat; Dean hauls the older man to his knees and slaps his back as he coughs. Something vile splatters across Dean’s shirt but Dean doesn’t care, he just listens to the breath stuttering into Bobby’s lungs and rides through the fear, the _oh god Bobby nearly died_ and the _please please I need him I can’t do this on my own._

“Bobby…Bobby…fuck…”

 

Bobby smells like vomit and blood and he must be very badly injured indeed because he actually lets Dean hold him upright. “Heard…heard something when I came in…” he coughs again, hawks loudly and spits. “Little shit…actually _jumped_ me when I came in. Like I was some kind of fucking _amateur.”_ Powerful fingers reach out, gripping hard on Dean’s shoulder. “Dean… you have to go out there and find him. Bring him back.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll find him. I promise.”

 

And then something strange happens. Quite without knowing why, Dean hugs the other man hard. Maybe all that time spent around Samuel has worn off on him, because Dean is not a usually a hugging person and Bobby is intensely unhuggable. Embarrassment burns his face and they both freeze for a moment, unsure of what to do. Then Bobby timidly pats Dean on the back. “I’ll, uh, be fine. Nothing I can’t patch up. You’d best be going after the boy, y’hear?”

 

“I hear.” Something clicks inside Dean’s head; he knows what has to be done.

 

He stands up, hits the lights. Flinches away from the window, waiting for a shot or something, but nothing comes. Bobby looks awful, his entire face bruised black under a layer of bile and dried blood, but Dean can’t think about that now. In the dresser by the door is a box of keys. Some of them are labelled, some are not. Some of them are usable, some are not. There are two there that Dean needs; one, the key to the Impala and its weaponry, and the second key that opens the secure garage where the Impala is stored. He grabs them, grabs a torch and leaves the house at a dead run.

 

It’s a dark night. The moon’s hiding and Dean prays that this will be enough to keep him safe from hostile eyes. Sure-footed across the familiar path, he’s completely taken by surprise when he trips and almost falls over something large and warm and immobile. Catching himself, he drops to his haunches and spins around, ready to fight. The expected blow doesn’t come. The body hidden in shadow doesn’t move. Dean raises his torch, clicks it on and off. It’s John, unconscious and with a bloody scalp. He smells like rust and urine when Dean shakes him, tries to wake him up

 

“Dad? Dad?”

 

John doesn’t stir, and he’s too hurt and vulnerable to be left in the open.

  
The Impala’s garage is much closer than the house and Dean knows that time is the most important thing here. Half carrying, half dragging John, heavy bastard that he is, takes more precious minutes that Dean can afford but he finds the garage door and he fumbles with the lock in the dark before cursing and turning the torch on it. The lock opens and he kicks at the door. He grabs John again and drags the man inside, kicking the door shut behind him.

 

Hitting the lights makes his head throb. On the ground, John makes a whining sound in protest. Dean kneels down, runs his fingers through his father’s hair, checks for lacerations and bruises. There are a few but none are gushing blood, and there are no compressions or spongy places on the skull. The Winchesters are renowned for the densities of their heads and Dean knows that John will be fine given a little time. He searches further down John’s body, looking for stab wounds or broken bones. He finds neither of these. He does find something else. Something that horrifies and disgusts him and floods him with rage. It’s John’s dick.

 

It’s just there. Limp and hanging out of his fly. It’s not like Dean hasn’t seen it before. Nearly two decades of sharing motel rooms and patching each other up after hunts have pretty much eliminated all forms of physical privacy.

 

“The fuck…the fuck did you do?” Dean snarls, because he has this image, this suspicion, of Samuel on his knees. How else could the boy have gotten past not one, not two, but three experienced hunters? The element of surprise only works once or twice. All the frustration and rage suddenly boils over and he finds himself kicking John in the stomach, hard. “You sick fucker,” and he lashes out again. John makes a whimpering noise, twitches a bit but doesn’t wake up. “Okay. Okay.”

 

Dean turns, paces, turns back, paces, turns away again. He grinds the heel of his hand into his aching eyes. The most likely scenario: John stops to take a piss and Samuel cracks a stone against the older man’s skull. It’s a simple explanation. After all that’s happened, the stalking, the kidnapping, the imprisonment, the head games, John isn’t going to just let Samuel go for the price of a blowjob. Besides, most of the time when John wants sex he just goes out and kills something instead. This is not what it looks like. Dean’s first conclusion was the wrong one entirely. He shouldn’t have thought such a horrible thing of his father. Dean turns back to John’s crumpled body and kicks the manipulative old bastard once more for good luck.

 

The Impala is safe and secure. No sign that anyone or anything has been in the garage. The weapons are there still in the Impala’s boot, rifles and pistols and knives, oh my. A couple gallons of holy water. All set. All good to go. Dean drags John out of the way and makes a token attempt to fix the man’s clothing, tug the shirt down to cover the groin, but damned if he’s going to touch his father’s dick. The roller door clatters as Dean pushes it up. He jumps into the Impala and drives off into the night.

 

**

 

Dean’s reasoning is methodical. If Samuel has hitched a lift or has walked into the scrub that surrounds the small town, there’s no chance that Dean can find him, not soon anyway. But one thing Dean does know is that the boy wants to run, likes to run, has built an entire life around running. So therefore he’s going to pick something that takes him as far away and as fast as possible. And since the boy has no money he’s going to head towards the nearest form of free transport.

 

There’s a truck stop just twenty minute’s walk down the road. Samuel would have reached it not all that long ago.

 

The massive floodlights at the stop make Dean’s eyes burn again as he pulls in, the gravel crunching underneath the Impala’s wheels. This town is tiny, filled with banjo players and good ole’ boys, but it’s on a major hauling route and a lot of trucks go through here. There’s twenty, thirty-odd trucks here right now and as Dean watches, another one pulls up. A huge rig, all shiny chrome and black menace. The driver jumps out, slams the door shut and saunters towards the shabby restaurant. The Impala coughs a little as Dean turns off the engine, like she feels his fear and urgency.

 

“Easy, baby,” Dean murmurs, and he’ll never admit it but it’s not the car he’s talking to.

 

Dean gets out. He wants a rifle. He wants Bobby and his father behind him. He wants Samuel, scarred up, fucked up, vicious little Samuel back. What he’s got is a couple of blessed knives in his boots and a handgun that’s not even his favourite.

 

Forcing himself to move casually, Dean moves across the bitumen.

 

“Hey,” he says, sidling up beside a trucker. The trucker barely grunts in reply, his eyes barely flicking as he goes from strap to strap on his rig, checking and tightening. “I’m looking for a kid. Seventeen, eighteen, or thereabouts. Stupid looking hair. Really tall but really skinny. Kinda gangly, if you know what I mean.”

 

“Ain’t seen no kid,” the trucker says. His hands don’t stop moving and he doesn’t look up either.

 

“Sure?”

 

“Yeah,” the trucker spits foully. Dean grudgingly thanks him and moves on.

 

The next three or four responses are the same. Dean is already certain that this is a wild goose chase, that Samuel is already a hundred miles away in the opposite direction. But just as he’s about to give up – drive to the pub, check the bus stops- he sees him. Samuel. Dean feels a wave of relief. He wants to run to Samuel, shake the boy around, smack him up a bit, beat some sense into the silly little shit but years of instinct is telling Dean to stay put, to hide and watch his prey. John drilling it in, over and over again: “Look around you first, always check for ambush, know where the exits are. If you make a habit of jumping in feet first, sooner rather than later you’ll get ‘em chopped off. Only fools rush in, Dean. Only fools rush in.”

 

So Dean slinks into a patch of shadow, leaning up against a loaded and silent rig in an area where he can see but not be seen. Samuel clearly has no idea that Dean is there. The boy is coming out of the dilapidated concrete block that serves as a bathroom, a fat, dirty looking middle aged man following behind. Samuel spits into the grass and wipes his mouth while the fat man scratches his balls in triumph. It’s pretty obvious that a transaction is just taken place. A sudden splintering pain blooms in Dean’s jaw and he realises that he’s grinding his teeth. Consciously he forces himself to relax, to observe. There’s time enough to beat the john up later.

 

Samuel oils his way across the lot, moving from trucker to trucker. Most of them wave him off with varying degrees of disgust or contempt, or even pity. One takes a swing at him but Samuel slides smoothly out and under, and onto the next. It’s the owner of the big silver and black rig. This one’s a customer, it looks like. The man is, compared to some of his colleagues, almost presentable but there’s something off about him. Maybe it’s the way he looks at Samuel like the boy’s prey to be eaten rather than a hole to be fucked. The already standing hairs on the back of Dean’s neck vibrate with tension. This man intends to do Samuel harm, Dean just knows it.

 

“Get into the cab,” the trucker is telling Samuel as Dean cautiously approaches. “I’ll go get you some fries or something.”

 

“Let’s not,” Dean says. “Hi Sammy.”

 

The look on the boy’s face is one of pure, unadulterated rage.

 

“Fuck off,” says the trucker pleasantly to Dean. He shoves Samuel in the direction of the rig.

 

“I can’t let you do that,” Dean says, “You’re coming home with me, Sammy. Now.”

 

“Don’t. Call. Me. Fucking. _Sammy!”_ Samuel hisses, “You fucking kidnapped me, you fucking cunt, you and your fucking nutjob friends. No, I’m not going with you. Fuck off!”

 

The trucker says, “Well, I guess that settles that.” He prods Samuel again. “Get moving.”

 

Dean and Samuel ignore him completely.

 

“Time to go back, little brother.”

 

“Fuck off and die in a fire.”

 

“Nice mouth. It ain’t helping you, Sammy.”

 

“Don’t fucking call me Sammy!”

 

“I don’t care what he’s called,” snaps the trucker, “He doesn’t want to go with you. He wants to go with me.” The trucker is shorter than Samuel and Dean, but he has muscle and bone over both of them. A hand the size and shape of a shovel clamps down on Samuel’s skinny bicep. The nails on this hand are blackened and dirty; the sight of them makes Dean feel queasy.

 

“Get your hands off my brother.”

 

“Go _away,_ Dean.”

 

“Yeah,” the trucker mocks, “Go away Dean.”

 

Dean’s temper snaps. He gives the trucker his most dazzling smile and brings the blade of his hand down hard on the man’s extended elbow joint. There’s a crunching sound and Dean’s hand goes numb with the force. By all rights the trucker should start screaming with the pain but all he does is blink a little. “I’m sorry,” says the trucker mildly, “Am I supposed to say ‘ouch’?”

 

That’s when the trucker’s eyes turn black.

 

Samuel howls, collapses in on himself. Dean barely has his mouth open to say ‘Christo’ before an invisible malevolent force slams into his gut, knocking him into the air. He lands hard, seeing stars and the wind knocked out of him, and he arches his back, mouth gaping open and shut like a goldfish as he tries to draw breath. Someone somewhere is screaming, _screaming,_ and on some level Dean realises that it’s Samuel but that’s irrelevant to the crushing pain in his chest. Then his throat opens all at once and the oxygen rushes in and oh god, it hurts so much, his chest and the back of his skull from where it slammed against the asphalt. Wheezing, he scrabbles into a shaky crouch. He fumbles for his gun but his vision is all fucked up and there are three truckers twisting the arms of three howling Samuels and Dean can’t figure out which one to point at.

 

“Get…get y’hands off m’brother,” he slurs, but there’s footsteps behind him and manicured fingers pluck the gun from his hands.

 

“Not _your_ brother,” Meg Masters growls as she flings the gun as far as she can, _“Mine.”_

“Bitch,” Dean spits, and she kicks him hard in the small of his back. Pain hot across his spine; his legs jerk involuntary and are suddenly heavy and numb. He falls helplessly onto his side. Samuel is being slowly forced to his knees, his arm twisted above his head and he is still screaming, the noise filling up Dean’s head until he can’t think.

 

“Shh, Sammy,” Meg whispers, “Shh, baby, it’s okay. It’s okay,” and Samuel’s screams taper into an exorcism chant. The trucker flinches, but Meg just slaps the boy hard and the chant stutters just long enough for the trucker to wrap his free hand across Samuel’s mouth.

 

“Help,” Dean rasps, “Help,” and the truckers are all moving across the car park are moving steadily across the lot towards them. The restaurant door opens and more people come out. The floodlights have to be playing a trick. A trick of the light. A trick that turns the eyes of every single person into solid black. The terror is so strong he wants to vomit. He shakes his head hard and looks again. There is nothing wrong with the lights. Every single person here, with the exception of Samuel and Dean himself, is possessed. They are surrounded by dozens of demons, some grinning with their borrowed faces, some frowning, some merely blank, but all of them with the same soulless black eyes.

 

Dean hisses through his bruised throat as rough hands reach down, haul him to his knees. Dirty, oily hands prise between his teeth and pinch his tongue. Dazed, injured, restrained. Dean is utterly helpless. All he can do is watch.

 

“Oh, baby, aren’t you happy to see me? Didn’t you miss me?” Meg says, stroking the red mark on Samuel’s cheek.

 

“I don’t want to go,” Samuel begs when the hand on his mouth loosens, “Don’t make me go.”

 

Meg’s pretty face is suddenly cold and she slaps him again, on the opposite side. “Shut up, Samuel,” she hisses. Then just as suddenly her face softens again and she caresses Samuel’s shaggy hair out of his eyes. “I’ve missed you so much, Sammy,” she says, “We all have. Didn’t you get my note? I wrote it just for you. Telling you to call me, but you never did.” Her eyes flick to Dean and Dean remembers the pattern she carved on his back. “I’ve missed you so much. We all have,” and she leans forward, kisses Samuel long and slow and sweet but Samuel won’t open his mouth. “Sammy. Come on, Sammy,” running her fingers through his hair, but the boy just turns his face away. “You’re coming home with us, Sammy,” and she keeps saying it, keeps saying the name over and over again like it’s some kind of mantra.

 

A great shudder rips through the boy’s body and he starts to cry. His eyes meet Dean’s and he looks like a dying thing. “You sick, Sammy?” Meg croons, “You sick, Samuel? You need your medicine. You know I got your medicine. I can give you as much as you want. I’ve never let you down that way, have I?”

 

Samuel shudders again and Dean remembers: junkie.

 

So what is it? Heroin? Ice? Crystal meth? Dean’s expecting a needle or powder or pills but Meg just smiles, kisses the boy on his forehead. “Love you, little brother. Remember that we only have each other. We got together and gave you a gift, did you see it? We hung it on that tree outside of that horrible little junkyard. Those men who hurt poor little lost Samuel; we found the pictures they took. And we showed them a little preview of hell before we sent them there. We did that for you. We did that for you both. We love you, little brother.”

 

“You fucking psychotic whore,” Samuel growls. Meg draws back. She looks at Samuel in surprise, looking for all the world like her little Demon feelings have been hurt.

 

“You’re not my sister. I’m not your brother. I’m not _anyone’s_ brother. All my brothers and sisters are dead and _you_ killed them. None of you,” he jerks his head at the audience, “Are my brothers or my sisters. You’re just fucking spirits that got all twisted up. That’s all. So stop calling me your brother and _stop calling me fucking Sammy!”_

Meg blinks. “Okay, Samuel. We’ll do it your way.” She pulls out a knife and Dean thinks for a wild second she’s going to use it on Samuel. “Hold him,” she says, and another demon steps forward to help the trucker who’s holding Samuel still. Together they pin the boy down.

 

“Time for your medicine.”

 

With a great, theatrical gesture, Meg slashes open her own wrist. Blood slaps wet against Samuel’s face and the boy is shaking worse than ever, breathing hard through his nose, mouth white and clamped shut, the irises of his eyes floating in a sea of white.

 

“It’s time to come back, Samuel,” she whispers, and Dean realises that this is it. This is the secret, this is the thing that he’s been on the verge of discovering, the last piece of the puzzle that is the scarred up, scared kid that’s on his knees in front of him.

 

For the rest of his life, Dean will always remember the horrible yearning that comes over Samuel when the blood comes spurting out. And he’ll always remember, with pride, that even though the boy wanted the blood so much he still fought against them when they pried his mouth open.

 

Meg’s wrist pressed against Samuel’s mouth, the boy’s head tilted at the sky so the blood runs down his throat; the boy struggles but then suddenly grows still. Then he moans, this filthy, pornographic moan and the truckers let go of him and step back. Both hands wrap around her delicate wrist and Samuel clamps his mouth over the wound like some bad vampire film. Horrible sucking noises, Samuel’s throat working frantically and Meg smiling, smiling as she strokes his hair.

 

“As much as you want, baby brother. It’s all yours.”

 

Dean wants to scream. He wants to vomit. The fingers in his mouth give him neither option. He can only watch.

 

Finally the sucking noises slow down. The boy throws his head back, stares at the sky. “Wow,” he says dreamily, “Oh _wow._ That feels so _good.”_ He falls backwards and giggles drunkenly, arms sprawling against the asphalt. “I’ve missed that so much.” He laughs and Meg laughs with him. She straddles his hips and leans down to kiss him. This time he kisses her back and blood smears messy all over their faces.

 

“You coming home with me, Sammy?”

 

“You know I am,” he says. She gets off of him and he stands. He stands differently. Samuel always stood hunched over, apologising for his height, flinching at the world. Sammy is tall and proud and cocky. But of course they’d stand differently. Sammy and Samuel are not the same person.

 

“Hey,” Sammy says, looking at Dean. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” And Dean remembers waking in the dark, Sammy warm on the mattress beside him, Dean’s knife in his hand as he peers down at Dean like he was looking at a peculiar type of bug.

 

“Yeah, we’ve met. One of Samuel’s little friends, aren’t you?”

 

Dean bites down on the fingers in his mouth. He grinds his teeth until they scrape against bone and the taste of grease and oil is replaced with blood. Samuel arches his eyebrows.

 

“Make sure you don’t waste that. It’s always best straight from the vein,” and snickers at the utter horror in Dean’s eyes. “What, don’t you like it from a guy? Well how about it from her?” He nods his head at Meg, “Or her, or her,” the handful of women in the crowd, in waitress uniforms or dressed plainly in jeans. “Aw, come on.”

 

The hands on Dean suddenly let go. He falls forward, barely catching himself on his hands. The acid burns his throat and his mouth and his nose as he vomits, hard.

 

“I _missed_ you guys,” Sammy enthuses with a manic smile. “I thought that whiny little bastard was _never_ going to let me go.”

 

It’s not John or Bobby or even Dean he’s talking about; it’s Samuel, the one who had been in control all this time.

 

 “What a shithole this place is. Let’s go somewhere interesting.” Sammy is sparking like wildfire, hands jittering, huge grin plastered across his face, the junkie on a drug high. Demon blood smeared all over and he grabs Meg, dances her around. “Where’s Father?” he asks, a sudden shadow coming over his face.

 

Meg hesitates, then smiles reassuringly. “He’ll be here soon,” she says.

 

Sammy frowns for a second, his head tilted to the side like a bird. Then he shrugs, the broad grin coming back on like a switch’s been flicked. It’s the same switch that Samuel flicks, but the grin is not the same. “Okay,” he says. “I like your new body, by the way. It’s hot.” And he leans down, kisses Meg again, long and dirty, lots of tongue. Dean sways on his hands and knees and retches again, but there’s nothing to bring up.

 

“Shall we?” Sammy says, offering his arm to his demon sister like he’s an old fashioned gentleman, and she an old fashioned lady.

 

“Let’s.”

 

“S-samuel,” Dean grates out. “S-s-stop.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Pl-ease…s-s-top,” he reaches out, weak as a baby. Sammy turns around, puzzled and annoyed.

 

“Samuel isn’t here. Samuel has left the building.”

 

“S-s-samuel…I know y-you’re still there…come back…come back…” Dean rocks back. Every muscle in his body screams sheer agony as he hauls himself upright. “Samuel…”

 

“Samuel’s gone,” Sammy snaps. He looks angry.

 

Meg pulls her knife. “Shall I kill him?” She says, excitement sparking in her eyes. Samuel stares hard at Dean, brown eyes flat and soulless.

 

“Nah,” he says eventually, “It’ll be more interesting to keep him alive.” And he kicks Dean very hard in the stomach.

 

That’s the final straw, as far as Dean’s body is concerned. He falls back to the ground, into his own vomit. He watches helplessly as Meg and Sammy walk away, laughing, their arms wrapped around each other. All around him the customers of the truck stop and the dodgy restaurant are spewing black smoke from their mouths and crying out in horror at what’s been done with them. The noise is kind of piercing but Dean doesn’t mind. He’s utterly incapable of screaming himself, and it’s good that other people can do it for him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Samuel/Sammy is a product of the grand tradition of Hollywood schizophrenia. This is in no way meant to be an accurate portrayal of Dissociative identity disorder.


	12. Charging Down the Maw

_Charging down the maw of the ocean_

_I want to come close, I want to come closer_

_I held your name inside my mouth_

_Through all the days out wandering_

_But called up from the mouth of oblivion_

_Cast away like dogs from the shelter_

_I shed the dulling armour plates_

_That once collected radiance_

_And, surging at the blood’s parameter_

_The half remembered wild interior_

_Of an animal life_

 

‘Animal Life’ - Shearwater

 

 

 

Dean wakes up.

 

It’s a gradual process. First he becomes aware of the noise surrounding him, hushed voices, hushed footsteps, the beep of heart monitors. Next to follow is the sensation of starched pillows and of cold feet and a heavy, aching pull in the top of one hand that he recognises as an IV line. And finally, the smell: harsh antiseptic with an undertone of suppurating flesh. A hospital, then. He squeezes his eyelids hard together, hoping to go back to sleep, but there’s no helping it, he’s well and truly awake. He opens his eyes and stares in resignation at the regulation off-white ceiling. He _hates_ hospitals.

 

There’s a sign and a rustle of clothes from the side of his bed. Dean knows without having to look that it’s John.

 

“Where’s Samuel?” Dean asked dreamily.

 

“Gone.”

 

“Gone?” He turns his head and stares at his father _. “You mean you don’t know where he is?”_

 

John flinches, looks away.

 

There’s a long silence. Dean frowns, trying to think of something, whatever that something might be. The immaculately clinical ceiling offers no clues. At last he stirs, fumbling for the IV line in his hand. John reaches out, slaps his fingers away. “Leave that alone.”

 

“We should be looking for Samuel-”

 

“Samuel is nowhere to be found,” John snaps, “And you know as well as I do that Samuel doesn’t exist. The whole Samuel/Sammy thing is just a game. Make believe. Pretend.”

 

“They both seemed pretty real to me.” Dean lies back. Now that he’s awake the morphine haze is beginning to wear off. There is pain in his stomach, in his knees, in his back. Pain sliding up his spinal cord and seeping into the back of his skull. He catalogues: multiple contusions to hands and knees. Severe bruising in his limbs, face, and abdominal organs. Cracked ribs.  Concussion. His mouth feels like he’s been chewing on broken glass, but mercifully none of his teeth feel like they’re been chipped or cracked. “So who am I today?” Dean and John, like all other hunters, prefer to avoid hospitals if they can but in their line of work it’s inevitable they’ll end up there sooner or later. Dean has been in hospitals for various things many times. He never uses his own name.

 

John coughs. “Dean Winchester,” he says, sounding vaguely embarrassed.

 

“You gave them my real name?”

 

“We ain’t the ones paying for it. One of Sammy’s...special friends... is picking up the tab.” That would be one of Samuel’s customers, possibly the fat one Dean had seen coming out of the toilet block in the truck stop. “Just as well,” John adds, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, “That bastard kid kicked the shit out of me while I was knocked out. I’m black and blue everywhere.”

 

Dean realises, to his mild surprise, that he doesn’t feel guilty at all. “How did he knock you out?” He asks instead.

 

“He waited until I was taking a piss.”

 

“You told me never to get distracted during a hunt.”

 

“I didn’t even know he was there. He threw a rock at me. Moved it. Some kind of telekinesis. He can do that, you know. Move things with his head.” John narrows his eyes, fixes Dean with a stare that should make the younger man quiver all the way down to his chilly feet but doesn’t. “I wasn’t expecting him. You should have been watching him.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says non-committaly. He looks away again, back up to the ceiling. It’s just as bland as it was before. He finds it weirdly comforting. “Moving things with his head is a good trick. Wonder why he didn’t use it before.”

 

“When he’s pretending to be Samuel, he pretends to be a lot weaker.”

 

“I don’t think he was pretending at all.” There’s the memory of Sammy in the grey dawning light, Dean’s knife in hand, looking down at Dean like he was staring at some mildly interesting species of cockroach. The coldest and dissecting and most clinical gaze Dean had ever seen outside of an autopsy room. And then there’s the memory of Samuel nuzzling at Dean’s throat, stroking Dean’s flank, Samuel’s soft, silly mop of hair tucked up beneath Dean’s chin.

 

Dean’s seen some spectacular con jobs in his life. He’s pulled off quite a few himself. There’s even some that he’s quite proud of, even knowing that he really shouldn’t be. Despite all this, there’s absolutely no way he can begin to believe that Sammy and Samuel are the same person.

 

“For chrissakes,” snaps John, “Don’t be so naive. I raised you to know better than that.”

 

Dean does not reply. John taps the plastic arm of his chair in irritation. Finally, the older man says, “I’m going to make a few phone calls. See if I can call in a few favours.” Translation: he has absolutely no idea what to do next so he’s going to gather as much information as possible while he tries to think of something.

 

“Fine,” says Dean. “I think I’m going to go back to sleep now.” He shuts his eyes, wiggles his shoulders, tries to get the aching muscles in his back to relax. The bed is wonderfully comfortable, despite the smell of disinfectant. He yawns meaningfully.

 

John sits still for a few minutes more, watching Dean in a way that seems mildly creepy. Then the older man gets up and leaves without another word.

 

When he’s sure John is gone, Dean presses the buzzer and waits for one of the harried nurses to appear. His feet really are very cold, and he’s too sore to get up and find another blanket himself. And for some reason, the mere thought of his father touching him in any sort of way turns his stomach.

 

**

 

Five days later Dean checks himself out.

 

The doctor makes a half-hearted attempt to get him to stay longer, but it’s obvious to Dean that they need all the spare beds they can get. The hospital is still full of the demon possession victims from the truck stop. And some of them won’t stop screaming.

 

At the reception desk he’s given a little slip of paper that he’s told is a taxi voucher. He memorises the name at the bottom, the name of the one who’s paid for all of his treatment, just out of habit. But Dean already knows that it’s pointless information. Samuel is gone, and it really doesn’t matter who he sucked off before he left.

 

So he takes the taxi to the closest thing he has to a home: Bobby’s place. The taxi smells like vomit, alcohol and shame, but at least the driver keeps quiet. It pulls up at the gates and Dean takes his plastic bag of clothes and walks up the driveway. The gravel shifts under his feet, putting stress on his abused limbs, and he’s sore and sorry by the time he reaches the house. Bobby’s waiting for him and holds the door open for him.

 

Inside it’s dark and Dean sees white specs until his eyes adjust. Bobby sidles past, looking awkward and embarrassed. They both remember that they hugged on the night that Samuel ran away. Dean supposes that he should be embarrassed as well, but he’s just too tired- mentally, emotionally, physically- to care. Instead he drops into the nearest kitchen chair like he has a right to it, and tilts back to stare at the ceiling. It’s dusty and full of cobwebs but is not, he’s relieved to note, regulation hospital off-white.

 

“Hungry?” Bobby asks.

 

“Not now, thanks.”

 

“Something to drink?”

 

“No.”

 

The chair opposite squeaks as Bobby sits down. “I’ve got a question for you,” he says. “Do you think that the Sammy/Samuel thing is true?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says softly, “I really do.”

 

Bobby nods. “I didn’t at first, but I do now.”

 

“You played me, didn’t you? You and Dad. You turned it into a good cop/bad cop routine. You manipulated me into being his friend and then you did everything you could to make him snap.”

 

Bobby stays silent, but does have the decency to look guilty.

 

“You wanted to see if it was true. You wanted Sammy, not Samuel.” Dean’s mouth twists. “That’s low, Bobby. That’s really, really low.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

 

“I can’t think of anything worse you could have done. It’s your fault he ran.” The last slips out before he can stop it. Dean is suddenly ashamed. They both know that this isn’t true. “I’m sorry,” Dean starts to say, but Bobby raises his hand.

 

“No,” Bobby says wearily, “You’re right. It is our fault; or partially, anyway. We did everything wrong.”

 

There’s a headache coming on, and Dean rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Where’s Dad?”

 

“Don’t know. Don’t care. He isn’t welcome in my house.”

 

Dean tries to be surprised, but he really can’t. “Sorry, Bobby. Just give me a minute to get my things together and I’ll go.”

 

“Sit back down,” Bobby snaps. “Listen: you and your brother are always welcome here, do you understand? What’s between John and I is our own business. That’s it. That’s all that matters. Is that clear?

 

Dean blinks. “Yes. Yes it is.”

 

Bobby nods in satisfaction. “Good. You look beat. If you’re not hungry, go rest up.”

 

“Yeah, I’ll do that.” The headache has arrived. It crouches in the centre of his brai, and begins to squirm. He knows that the only thing that can be done about it is to swallow some pain killers and go sleep it off.

 

The lumpy, ancient mattress is waiting for him in Bobby’s spare room, and a vague whiff of stale cigarette smoke. Dean suddenly misses Samuel with a fierceness that he didn’t know he had. But even with all that, he stops, and smiles.

 

Under the window is a large, ugly cage, cobbled together out of chicken wire and star pickets. Inside of it Samuel’s white rat bustles about, shepherding, nuzzling, playing with her clumsy little kittens. She’s happy and content. And in some strange way, Dean feels better inside because he knows that this is exactly what Samuel wanted for her, and that he trusted Dean- and maybe even Bobby- enough to give it to her.


	13. If You Call

_If you call then I'm coming to get you_   
_If you call then I'm coming, now_   
_If you call then I'm coming to get you_   
_You want to sink, so I'm going to let you_   
  
_All I want is some earth and seed_   
_But only grow the things I need_   
_But first I must find my way back_   
_And you go lay down on the track_

 

\- ‘Sink’ by Brand New

 

 

The sun’s setting and the glare makes Dean’s eyes hurt. In front of him the road is straight and perfectly flat, just begging for him to push the Impala as fast as she can go and oh, the ride is so sweet. So smooth that he tallies up the days: four months, two weeks and nine days since he last had sex.

 

He’s stopped flinching whenever a girl touches his ear. That’s something.

 

Tucked safely in the passenger side well is a sturdy knapsack filled with obscure vanity press books, ranging from a century old to several volumes made from computer printouts wedged between thick slabs of cardboard. Histories of gun and knife smithing, lists of particularly nasty curses and little handwritten notebooks smeared here and there with blood. He’s acting as a courier between John and Bobby, because the both of them refuse to so much as be in the same town together. And they don’t get over it soon, Dean’s going to smack their concrete-filled heads together and lock them in a single room to fight it out. He’s not game to call it on who would win, but he knows that he’d make a killing selling ringside tickets.

 

Sometimes he misses Samuel so hard it hurts.

 

By the time Dean gets to a service station he’s hungry, so he decides to stop for an hour and eat. The station is on the outskirts of what used to be a one horse town, but the horse died years ago and they hadn’t thought to get a new one. It’s the closest thing to a meeting place for miles around and when Dean pulls up the Impala is in good company. In a place like this the only pastimes are drinking, fucking cows and turning what used to be quiet little family cars into eight cylinder monstrosities specifically designed to piss off the local coppers. The Impala’s still the prettiest there, however, and he gives her a comforting pat before he goes inside.

 

He orders and sits down in a booth. Rather than trying to pick up, he’s been working on improving his mind. Kerouac is excellent but Vonnegut is king. Right now, however, he’s improving his mind with one of the books that he’s currently transporting. It’s an obscure volume on legends of gun smithing; he’s up to a chapter on German folklore. A marksman, called a _Freischütz_ , would make a contract with the devil. In exchange for his soul he’d receive seven magic bullets, called _Freikugeln_. The first six would hit any target without fail, but the seventh would belong to the devil. There’d been operas written about it, and lots of books and short stories too. He actually remembered reading one, come to think of it. It’d been buried in a thick slab of overdone prose by some overly self-satisfied British feminist, something he’d ordinarily not touch with a stick, but he’d been stuck in a room without television for two weeks straight and he’d been chewing on the skirting boards at that point.

 

Dean methodically chomps his way through a hamburger, careful to wipe his fingers on the napkin before he turns a page.

 

Not all of the chapters are about legends in the distant past. There’s a chapter on a mythical Smith and Wesson prototype that had been rather too successful on the first test firing. When a bullet from this gun was fired into a target, the target would be obliterated by a massive lightning strike. When fired into a clear sky, a violent thunderstorm would appear within seconds. Very soon after the test run the weapon had been seized by the local mayor, who was canny enough to know trouble when he saw it, and melted down with the scrap thrown off of a cliff and into a river. Mister Smith and Mister Wesson, or so the story went, had left town very quickly after the local preacher somehow got his hands on a copy of _The Hammer of the Witches_ and started to round up a lynch mob.

 

He’s just started on the chapter on Samuel Colt when someone slides into the seat opposite him. “Hi,” she says, “I saw you were all alone. I thought you might like some company.”

 

Dean looks up. The woman across from him is a slender brunette with a heart shaped face. “I’m always after company,” he says automatically, and then kicks himself. He’s not after company and hasn’t been for a while.

 

“My name’s Ruby.” Her face has a naturally serious cast to it, but when she smiles she’s very pretty. “So…what brings you into town?”

 

“Just passing through.”

 

Ruby tilts her head, bird-like. “Like me, you mean? I came here for the apple picking, but season’s over now. Time to move on.”

 

Dean nods and smiles politely.

 

“I’m trying to figure out where to go next. I’m not getting along with my family right now, so it doesn’t matter much where I go after this, I suppose.” She laces her fingers under her chin. “You got family around here, Dean?”

 

“No,” says Dean. Family is still a touchy subject as far as he’s concerned. And he’s really not interested. He stuffs the last bite of hamburger into his mouth and swallows it down. “Well, hate to leave a pretty girl like you, but I really have to get going now.”

 

“There’s sauce on your face,” Ruby makes a little motion towards him, and he can’t help flinching back. “Right. Um. Sorry to have bothered you.”

 

Guiltily, Dean says, “I’m the one who’s sorry, sweetheart. I’ve just had a rough time lately and I’ve not been good company lately.”

 

“Oh, I completely understand,” says Ruby. Shamelessly she steals his plate, licks a finger and begins to pick up the crumbs. “The whole business with Sammy and Samuel, well, it’s enough to knock anyone around. And the restaurant is very crowded right now so if I were you I’d sit back down and leave the gun where it is. You really didn’t notice that I knew your name even though you didn’t tell me it? I’ve been told that you Winchesters are slow but that’s even worse than I’ve expected.”

 

Dean sits back down and very carefully puts his hands on the table where she can see them.

 

“Don’t take it like that way, Dean. We’re not all…” She trails off, heaves a great sigh. “Look, you’re not the only one who wants to take down Yellow Eyes. You’re on the right track anyway.” She taps at Dean’s forgotten book. “You might want to read the chapter on Samuel Colt a bit closer.”

 

And then just like that, she’s gone. Disappears into thin air quick as blinking, leaving behind only Dean’s terror and rage.

 

He snatches up the book and leaves as fast as he can. As much as he’d like to stay and lurk around, making sure that none of Sammy’s little demon friends are hanging about and smoking up the place, he knows that if it’s him they’re after then the absolute best way to protect the people here is to leave.

 

The inside of the Impala is cold. It’s gotten dark while he was in the service station. He puts his handgun on the seat next to him and gets the hell out of town.

 

**

 

The sky is lighting into indigo before the urgency begins to fade and Dean starts to yawn. The back of his eyeballs feel like they’ve been gently sanded, and he begins to count the miles until the next motel. He feels awful. Exhaustion, bone deep, mingled with shame at his utter stupidity. He should have known that Sammy’s little friends would come after him next. Should have known. And now every single person who’s ever been close to him, physically and emotionally, is at risk of harm. Dean, John, Bobby- all three of them had hurt Samuel, had frightened him, had refused to let him go. They are a risk, and Sammy has to know that that they’d be coming for him as well. Has to know.

 

A gigantic yawn damn near splits Dean’s head in half. His eyes are off the road for a split second, but it’s enough. The woman in white appears in the centre of the road, as suddenly as Ruby had left the service station, and he’s yanking hard on the steering wheel before he consciously registers her. There’s this split second of dislocation in his head, where he observes everything in slow motion. He doesn’t see the woman’s face, but the skirt of her nightgown flutters like it’s caught in the wind as the Impala spins out. The tyres scream and there’s nothing Dean can do about it because he’s going way too fast. There’s a gigantic thud as the Impala leaves the road and slides into a ditch. The engine revs as it slips out of gear and stalls.

 

The handgun has slid under the seat and he wastes precious seconds groping after it, but he can’t find it and finally he lunges out the door. He has the secret compartment open and a rifle loaded with rock salt before he hears the first bay.

 

He scrambles out of the ditch and towards the road, but the grass in front of him twists and breaks as something massive moves through it and he knows that he’s being hunted. The air changes, there’s a snarl that sickens him through and through and he pulls the trigger. The snarl turns into a yelp and there’s a thud as a body strikes the ground, but he still can’t see what it is.

 

Growling all around him, there’s more than one invisible beast here and they all want his meat. He lunges back towards the Impala, salt and more rifle cartridges, but the grass moves and he knows that he’s surrounded. And then-

 

-something cold touches the nape of his neck, soft and melting like a snowflake or a kiss and he hears _I love you, Dean_ -

 

-the grass crunches as the unseen beasts fall back and-

 

-something cold gently embraces him and _-_

-a striking brunette appears and throws herself at the spaces in the grass where the monsters are and-

 

-and he hears, _I trust you,_ and _-_

 

-there’s a flash of silver and blood arcs into the air-

 

-and he hears, _to bring our boys back home-_

 

-and there’s blood flying everywhere, and it splatters all over and shows the outline of a monstrous hound. Dean shoots. There’s a yelp and more blood appears in mid air, tricking down and he can see where the head should be. He shoots again and he catches a glimpse, just a glimpse, of pus yellow eyes. The grasses shake and crunch as the invisible hounds turn and run, whining and yelping.  Ruby turns towards him, panting, covered in blood from head to toe, eyes pitch black and wild like a madwoman. She drives her wicked-looking blade into the ground and steps away, hands held high in surrender.

 

“Are you ready to talk to me now?”

 

And Dean aims the barrel of the rifle dead straight at the centre of her forehead, but what he says is, “Yes.”

 

**

 

“Get in,” Dean motions with the barrel of the rifle. Ruby rolls her eyes, but steps willingly into the demon trap that he’s scratched into the dirt. Dean circles around, checking and rechecking the lines that hold her in place before finally standing in front of her. “Talk,” he says, lowering the rifle but still holding it in a way that he can bring it up to aim very quickly.

 

“Azazel,” she says, “His name is Azazel. We try not to say his name too often. We don’t know if he can hear it. Mostly we call him Yellow Eyes.”

 

Dean remembers the pus yellow eyes of the hound, and shudders.

 

“Politics are a bitch no matter where you go,” Ruby continues, “Hell’s no different. Azazel likes to throw his weight around.”

 

“Why?”

 

Ruby shrugs. “Don’t know. He could want to be king, he could be doing it just because he can. Demons are just like humans, really.”

 

“And those kids of his? What’s up with those?”

 

“He bled into their mouths. Stood over their cots when they were six months old. Give them a taste and they’ll want it for the rest of their lives.”

 

“So why does he do it?

 

“I don’t know. And I don’t know why he kills them either.”

 

“Soooo…why are you here?”

 

“Politics, like I said,” snaps Ruby. “Azazel’s a tyrant. Some of us would prefer that he would go be a tyrant elsewhere.”

 

“Personal politics, or…or workplace politics?”

 

“Personal.”

 

Dean narrows his eyes. He’s pretty certain she’s lying.

 

“Honestly!” she protests.

 

As if. He opts not to argue and says instead, “If Azazel sent those things that attacked me, does this mean that they’re…”

 

“Hellhounds. Yeah. The genuine article. And yes, Yellow Eyes did send them.”

 

“Helping us sounds pretty risky, even if it’s just personal politics. You do realise that we can gank you if you piss us off?”

 

“Well,” Ruby says. “It’s not just that. I’ve been stuck in Hell for a very long time. And truthfully…I’m really, really bored.”

 

And she smiles.

 

**

 

It takes a few days to get back to Bobby’s place.

 

Dean keeps moving pretty fast. He stops to eat and sleep, and then only when he really has to. He doesn’t see Ruby again, or hear any hellhounds baying for him. Once though, when he’s stopped for food, he walks past a toy shop on the way to the diner. He sees a huge black dog out of the corner of his eye, starts, hand going for his gun. Then he realises that it’s an oversized stuffed toy, although any parent who would give that nightmare-inducing monstrosity to their child must be out of their mind.

 

The thing that really gets to him is the glass eyes. They’re yellow.

 

Pus yellow.

 

In the end he buys it. He tells the boy at the checkout that it’s a gift for his girlfriend, who loves Rottweilers. An hour out of town and he stops, and sets fire to the hideous thing. He watches until it’s completely burnt up, except for the eyes, which are glass and refuse to melt. Those he grinds to dust between two rocks. It doesn’t make him feel any better.

 

Each time he’s forced to stop he reads the gun smithing book, the chapter on Samuel Colt, over and over again until he’s memorised it. Finally he gives up and starts on a mauled copy of Bram Stoker’s _Dracula_ that he finds in the wastebasket of a particularly skanky motel room, where the owners are apparently not sold on the whole concept of ‘cleaning’. The book’s missing half its pages, but there’s just enough left for him to get the gist of the storyline. It’s deeply dry repressed Victorian nonsense, but there’s a line that shakes him and chills him to the bone: _“The blood is the life.”_

He has a nightmare that night. He has a lot of those, but this one is special. It’s probably because of that damn vampire book.

 

_It’s a room that’s ridiculously decadent, like some idiot decided that reproducing every harem cliché from a movie set was a good idea. All red and gold silk hangings, wafting gently in a breeze. Naked people wrapped around each other, fucking slowly and languidly, or else wandering about with dull eyes and stupid doped up grins. There are demons here and there, participating or else watching with their dead, black eyes. There are lines of white power and baggies of pills on little inlaid tables._

_And in the centre of it all, in a knot of writhing bodies, being licked all over, is Sammy. He’s covered in smears of blood. His mouth is red with it._ The blood is the life.

_But then Sammy looks up and Dean can see his eyes and Dean realises that it’s not Sammy after all, because Sammy’s eyes are brown.  It isn’t Samuel either, because Samuel’s eyes are green. This man has hazel eyes, and oh, the look in those eyes is so unbearably sad and trapped._

_The man with the hazel coloured eyes stares at Dean and there’s pure purgatory in his face. His mouth moves. Dean knows how it always goes in these types of stories; the man is supposed to say ‘help me’. But what he says instead is this:_

_“Fix me.”_

 


	14. Call Me Cookie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've opted to use Genevieve Cortese's Ruby, as I really liked her take on the character. Much softer, and it was easier to see her in the role of a seductress.

_I'm the root of all that's evil yeah but you can call me Cookie_  
 _The roof the roof the roof is on fire_  
 _The roof the roof the roof is on fire_  
 _The roof the roof the roof is on fire_  
 _We don't need no water let the motherfucker burn_  
 _Burn motherfucker burn_

 

The Roof is On Fire- the Bloodhound Gang

 

 

 

 

There's a snuffle at the door.

 

Dean jerks awake. His gun's instantly in his hand. There's another snuffle, and then a questioning whine. Slowly, silently, he takes off the safety and takes careful aim. A shadow blocks the dawn light as it paces back and forth before the door. Then there's a sharp whistle,  someone calling out, "Come away from there!" Nails click across concrete as the dog answers its master, and Dean's left sitting up in bed, heart beating wildly. Dean is learning to _hate_ dogs, even the ordinary, mundane type.

 

No chance getting back to sleep now.

 

He gets out of bed and, after carefully checking the door for unwanted visitors, and making sure the salt lines on the windows are unbroken, takes a shower. He's tired and sleepy. He'd slept a solid five hours last night, but it doesn't seem to have helped any. He contemplates going back to bed and spending the whole day napping and watching television, but then his mobile chirps with a text message:

 

 _Call me when you get the time._ It's from Bobby.

 

Then the mobile chirps again:

 

 _I need to ask Bobby something._ This one's from his father.

 

Dean groans, rubs his face, rubs the strange cold spot on the nape of his neck that won't warm up no matter what he does to it, decides that he would rather have this conversation on a full stomach, and goes in search of breakfast.

 

He's halfway through a plate of waffles when Ruby slides into the seat opposite him, and he closes his eyes and suppresses a small whimper.

 

"Can't I even have breakfast without getting interrupted?"

 

"Nope," Ruby says with bloodthirsty glee. She waves at a waitress. "I want the same as him, and some fries."

 

"Isn't it a little early for fries?" Dean asks her wearily as the waitress heads off towards the kitchen.

 

"It's never too early for fries. Besides," Ruby adds, eyeing his waffles, nearly buried under cream and ice cream, slathered in caramel sauce, "You're not exactly a healthy eater yourself."

 

Dean mentally grants her a point and keeps eating. Ruby eyes his plate with something close to lust. "What do you want?"

 

"Don't speak with your mouth full," Ruby snaps absently, "It's vulgar." Dean raises an eyebrow. He raises the other when the waitress returns and places a pot of tea between them, before moving onto the next table.

 

"Tea? Really?"

 

"Coffee during breakfast is also vulgar."

 

"Just how old are you anyway?"

 

Ruby hesitates, wrinkling her forehead.

 

"Lemme guess, asking how old you are is vulgar as well."

 

With a careless gesture, she waves the question away. "I think...seven, seven fifty maybe..."

 

"You're seventy years old?"

 

They both pause while the waitress sets Ruby's fries and waffles in front of her. Ruby smiles in thanks and inhales half of the fries in less than fifteen seconds.

 

"Seven hundred, more like," Ruby tells him as she pours a cup of tea. "It was in the Middle Ages, I think. Or what you call the Middle Ages, anyway. Back then we didn't really pay much attention to the dates. It was the seasons that we were interested in. And the Black Death." Dean stares. "That's why I've never understood the whole nostalgia thing, the 'simple life of the rustic peasants' crap. My own family tied me to the stake when they burnt me as a witch. Mind you," she adds with a nasty little smirk. "They were right about me being a witch. Can't say that the being burnt alive bit was fun, though."

 

There's still a little ice cream left on Dean's plate. He forces himself to eat it even though his appetite's suddenly vanished. The cold spot on the nape of his neck, the place where he'd been kissed, grows a little colder.

 

"Fry?" says Ruby, offering him the basket.

 

"No thanks."

 

"Suit yourself." The rest of the fries vanish just as quickly as their predecessors. The waffles she takes her time over. Dean toys with his coffee cup and looks out of the cafe window, into the street. "You do know that you're being tracked, right?"

 

"I'm not blind," Dean snaps, "It's a bit hard to miss paw prints the size of dinner plates outside my door every morning."

 

"Well done," Ruby smiles, cream in the corner of her mouth and on her teeth, "There's hope for you yet. Anyway, I was wondering if you'd had time to do some research yet?"

 

Bobby and John are handling that part, with Dean doing all of the running around for them. "Some."

 

"Looked up Azazel yet?"

 

"Ain't had the chance."

 

Glowering as she shovels the last bit of waffle into her throat, "Come _on,_ Dean. Get it together. This is important."

 

 _Damn straight,_ Dean thinks. Out loud he says, "I've been doing a lot of reading up about demons. All we'd need is just a trap, right?"

 

Something very ugly flicks across Ruby's pretty face. For less than a heartbeat, her eyes go black. "No," she says flatly, "There isn't a trap in this world or any other that can hold him. If you'd been reading the right books you'd know that."

 

"I've been reading about the Colt. Wouldn't happen to know where it is, would you?"

 

"No." Ruby grins, showing too many teeth, and Dean suppresses a shudder. "But you're asking the right questions, finally. I know who has it, though. He told me to give this to you."

 

Carefully, reverently, she pulls a tiny fold of silk from her pocket. Inside the folds is a bullet, which she places on the table between them.

 

"My boss asked me to give this to you. A gesture of good faith."

 

Dean eyes it doubtfully. There's a number engraved on the side, and it's of a strange make that he's never seen before. "It's a bullet. What's so special about it?"

 

"A gun for the devil, Dean," Ruby whispers.

 

"So this is a magic bullet?" Rolling it between thumb and forefinger it feels alien, too strange, too cold, and moves with its own momentum like it has a core of liquid.

 

"Only if you use the right gun."

 

"The Colt?"

 

"Yeah. Find it. Find it quickly, Dean."

 

"How am I supposed to do that?" He looks up. Ruby is staring intently out of the window. The street outside has gone suddenly dark.

 

"I think he heard us," she says calmly, "I think it'd be a good idea if we ran now."

 

There's a blinding light and a deafening crash. Everyone in the cafe- including Dean- screams and ducks. The lights flicker out, but across the street a building is lightning-struck, smouldering. Then the hail starts. The few people left on the street are either dragging themselves or dragging others to the debatable safety of the shopfronts. Hail the size of golf balls is hitting the pavement.

 

"Where the hell did this come from?" someone yells behind him.

 

"Fucked if I know! It was blue skies ten seconds ago!"

 

"This isn't showing up on the weather radar! According to the satellite this isn't even here!" yells a third person, waving a smart phone in the air.

 

"Shut up about the radar and get the fuck away from the windows, you idiot!"

 

"Dean," Ruby is plucking fitfully at his sleeve. "We have to leave."

 

"Run where, exactly?"

 

"Unless you want every single person in this building to die, we have to run _now!"_

 

Ruby's up and gone. _"Fuck!"_ Dean yells, and goes after her.

 

The sound of hail on the roof is deafening, but it's not loud enough to drown out the baying of the hellhounds. They run through the cafe and out through the kitchens. There's a laneway there, Ruby pounds down it without hesitation. She knows where they're going. The high buildings either side of them protect them from the worst of the hail, but not all of it. There's a crack as a hailstone glances of off Dean's head, and next thing he knows one eye is full of blood. Ruby grabs his hand and drags him along. Her tiny hand is hotter than a furnace, makes his skin crawl, but he can't see where he's going and he doesn't even know the way. They crisscross the town through the alleyways and even though warehouses. They arrival at the hotel where Dean's staying, soaked through with rain and in Dean's case, blood.

 

"Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up!" Ruby screams at him from the doorway as he goes for his rifle.

 

"I'm coming!"

 

The howls are getting closer. Ruby screams again, this time in pain as something huge and heavy slams into her. The line of salt behind the door has been broken by the wind and rain and she's knocked into the room with him. Something huge enters with her, something invisible that snarls. It should be hot but it's not, it's cold, freezing cold like the hail. Dean frantically scrubs the blood out of his eye and swings the rifle around. He aims the muzzle at the source of the snarl, yanks at the trigger. The noise of the shot is deafening at these close quarters. There's a flash, just a flash, of red eyes as something yelps. He pulls the other trigger but it's too late as the rifle is knocked out of his hands. This shot goes wild, hitting the light fixture instead. There's a shower of sparks and they fall to show the silhouette of a monstrous hound. Ruby pulls a knife from inside her jacket and lunges, stabbing wildly where the back legs should be. She grabs on and is swung ludicrously from side to side, slashing away with her knife.

 

Dean has retrieved the rifle and is reloading, pushing the blessed salt cartridges into place. It seems like forever, but it's really only a matter of seconds before it's done. He's far too experienced to ever falter.

 

There's blood splashing on the walls, the noise from the hail and the hound is nothing shy of deafening. But with the blood and the smoke billowing from the gunshot light fixture, Dean can finally, finally, get a bead on the hell hound's head. He aims the rifle dead centre of its forehead and pulls both triggers.

 

A yelp and a whimper. Ruby falls against the wall with a sickening crack. A great inrush of air and a thump as the hound collapses. A blast of frigid air and the place where the hound used to be is empty again.

 

Dean sags against the bed, utterly exhausted. Outside, through the open door, the storm is abating as suddenly as it arrived. He wants nothing more than to sleep forever. Unfortunately, the smoke detector has other ideas. Looking up, he can see little flames licking at the ceiling where the light fixture used to be. With a resigned sigh, he quickly scoops up his meagre possessions into his duffle bag, rifle stowed safely at the bottom, seizes Ruby by her arm and drags her outside. The manager comes running out of the office, ledger in hand, hammering at the doors. Grudgingly, people are coming out of their rooms, slipping and sliding on the hailstones.

 

"Into the car park!" squawks the manager, "Into the car park, yellow sign, designated evacuation area."

 

Seeing no other option, Dean lets himself be bullied as he drags a semiconscious Ruby behind him.

 

"Room A, Room B, Room C..." The manager is strutting backwards and forwards, ledger in hand, checking it against all of the guests. Evidently the count tallies because she slams it shut with a gratuitously dramatic gesture. And then, she joins everyone else in watching the motel burn.

 

"I'm so sorry," Dean says, meaning it in every possible way.

 

The manager says, "Fuck that! The insurance on this place is three times as much as it's worth. I'm a fucking millionaire now! Burn, you bastard, burn! I'm rich!"


	15. The Silver Forked Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything must be paid for. Dean knows this better than he should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, randomstasis!

_Just for a minute_   
_The silver forked sky_   
_Lit you up like a star_   
_That I will follow_   
_Now it's found us_   
_Like I have found you_   
_I don't want to run_   
_Just overwhelm me_   
_What if this storm ends?_   
_And leaves us nothing_   
_Except a memory_   
_A distant echo_

-'Lightning Strike' Snow Patrol

 

 

 

 

_"A gun for the devil," Samuel says. He's shirtless and unscarred, dangling his feet in the water. "It's a pretty old myth. Since guns were first invented. There were probably stories of magic arrows or spears or whatever before that."_

_"Don't kick," Dean tells him, "You'll frighten the fish."_

_Samuel huffs, but he does stop kicking. "There's a lot of different versions of it. My favourite one is where this pianist wanted to murder this Mexican bandit king."_

_"I've read it. It sucked. Ow!"_

_"Sooo... why are you fishing?"_

_"I come here when I don't want to think. Now shut up, I'm concentrating." With care, Dean takes a pair of pliers and bends the fish hook into an elaborate and utterly useless knot._

_"No way you're ever going to catch anything with that."_

_"That's the point." He smiles in satisfaction and casts the line back into the water. "Nothing spoils fishing like catching a fish."_

_Samuel huffs again, tilts his head and smiles. He looks over the lake, utterly smooth and glassy. "I like this dream. It's very peaceful."_

_"I know," Dean tells him, "That's why I come here."_

_"Doesn't it bother you? The thing on the back of your neck?"_

_"Sort of. I think I'll need it later on though."_

_"What is it?"_

_"It's just a kiss."_

 

**

 

Dean stirs.

 

He feels heavy and slow, it's hard to wake. The dream slides away, leaving three things behind it: water, Samuel, and a profound sense of peace. Dean stretches luxuriously. This motel is considerably up market compared to what he's used to, but the manager of the motel he'd burned down had insisted on booking all of her customers into sister  chains (muttering 'insurance' under her breath all the while with a huge grin all over her face) and Dean had been too tired to care. And now he's lying in what's quite probably the best bed he's slept in for _years_ and he rather thinks that setting fire to the last one might have been the best excuse for pyromania in the history of mankind.

 

His mobile phone chirps again and Dean remembers the calls and texts he'd ignored all yesterday, and cringes. He takes a deep breath and answers.

 

_"Are you all right?" Bobby_ barks, without so much as a 'hello' _. "Where are you? There are demonic signs everywhere. Where the hell are you?"_

 

"Hi Bobby," Dean grunts, rolling out of bed and pulling on his jeans, "I'm fine. I was attacked last night by hellhounds, I was rescued by a demon and the motel I was staying in burned to the ground. Other than that, business as usual. How's yourself?"

 

At this point he has to hold his phone at arm's length because the sound of Bobby's shouting is hurting his ears.

 

"Look," Dean says, when Bobby has calmed down enough to listen, "I forgot, okay? I wasn't injured- much- and no one died. And I was tired."

 

_"How injured isn't_ much?"

 

"A cut on my forehead. That's all, I swear."

 

There is another torrent of foul language. Sounds like all that time around Samuel has worn off on Bobby.

 

"Bobby, no, Bobby, stop, I'm fine, I really am," Dean tells him, "If I'd gotten hurt I would have told you."

 

There's a short silence. Then Bobby says _, "What's this about being rescued by a demon?"_

Dean explains. The resulting stream of obscenity goes on long enough for Dean to brush his teeth and wash his face. When he picks up the phone again, Bobby is finally beginning to wind down.

 

"Samuel would be proud of you," Dean says when he's able to get a word in. There's an inarticulate snarl from the other side of the line. "I told you that I'm fine. And I meant it." He's feeling like snarling himself, but getting Bobby offside is never the best idea. And Bobby can sulk for months over even the flimsiest of excuses. "I'm not stupid. I know exactly what Ruby is. I know she's not my friend. I know that she's lying to me."

 

Although whether she realises that she's been so obvious about it is another matter entirely.

 

_"Fine,"_ Bobby says grudgingly, _"I can't stop you."_ He mutters something suspiciously like 'damn fool kids' under his breath and Dean pretends not to have heard.

 

"So what's this about demonic signs?"

 

_"Dozens of 'em. Electrical storms, cattle mutilations , sulphur drifting out of clear skies, bunches of idjits convinced they've seen UFOs 'cause they're too stupid to know ball lightning when they see it. And they're moving, straight and fast like an arrow. Motorin' along. They went through where you were in a matter of hours and then moved on. They're tracking something. Chasing it."_

 

"Chasing what?"

 

_"Hell if I know, what am I, psychic? Try finding out for yourself."_

 

"Co-ordinates?"

 

As Dean fumbles for a piece of paper and a pen, little flares of pain begin to twinge and burn . A quick glance in the full length mirror reveals that he's black and blue. And the cold spot on the back of his neck is aching like someone has sticky-taped an ice cube there.

 

Today is going to a very long day. He can tell.

 

And just as Dean has finished his shower, maximum water pressure, just this side of scalding, John calls. As Dean starts to apologise for all of the unanswered texts and messages from yesterday, John cuts him off cold. _"Shut up,"_ John snaps, _"And listen. It's about that book I had you fetch. The one on guns. The story about Samuel Colt..."_

 

As Dean listens to his father, he pulls the strange bullet that Ruby had given him out of its hiding place in his shaving kit and rolls it between thumb and finger. The thing is with legends, that they can get wrapped up around each other, mesh and become something else entirely, or else can break down into separate pieces, fragments and shards.

 

Samuel Colt was a brilliant man. An inspired one. But inspiration must come from somewhere and there is always a price for brilliance.

 

_"There is a man that I need you to go see. An antiquarian, who collects old revolvers..."_

**

 

"Hi Dean," Ruby chirrups as she slides into the booth opposite. Dean groans around a mouthful of battered fish. "What, no burger?"

 

Dean chews and swallows. "I've been here before. Their burgers taste like half-rotted leather between two pieces of old shoe. Their fish, on the other hand, is almost edible. And there's nowhere else to eat around here anyway."

 

"How are the fries?"

 

"Awful."

 

"I'll chance it."

 

"Your funeral," he tells her, and completely ignores the amused smirk she gives him. "What do you want?"

 

"Some interesting fireworks happening a few hours north from here. Want to check them out?"  
  
"Sorry sweetheart, I'm already spoken for. Wouldn't your boss get pissed off if you fraternise with the enemy?"

 

"Boss? What boss?" Ruby creases her forehead in a perfect imitation of puzzlement. "I told you, no one's pulling my strings."

 

_Like hell,_ Dean thinks, remembering how she'd told him about her master giving her the magic bullet to give to Dean, and the skin on the back of Dean's neck burns slightly in warning. He drops the subject and moves onto the next. "So what's going on with all the signs all of a sudden?"

 

"There's an artefact," Ruby says, squirming a little in her seat, miming excitement and nervousness. "A gun. It's the one that the bullet belongs to. It's special, Dean. It can kill anything, one shot. _Anything._ Even Lucifer himself."

 

  "You mean that Lucifer's real?" Dean asks in bemusement.

 

"Of course he is! He-" Ruby breaks off with a little growl of frustration at his broad grin. "Look, I'm a believer, okay? So let's get on with it. All those signs are tracking towards one place. This old guy who has a thing for old guns." Sounds like her and John are getting their information from the same place. Dean swallows the rest of his fish and stands up. "Where are you going?" Ruby asks petulantly.

 

"To pay the bill. The sooner I’m on the road the better."

 

The older woman at the register smiles like a grandmother as he steps up to the counter. "All finished?" she coos.

 

"Yeah," Dean tells her, smiling awkwardly. He _hates_ the friendly ones. There types always remember their customers, a terrible thing for a habitual law breaker like himself. The icy patch on his neck burns like guilt.

 

"A handsome lad like yourself always needs a good meal. If you're not careful, I'll take you home myself." As she takes his money, she leans forward like a conspirator. "I'm not actually flirting with you. I just want it to look like I am, so everyone here believes that there's nothing wrong with me. See, I don't find boys your age attractive at all. I like them younger; eleven to fifteen, or thereabouts. Oh, don't worry, I've never actually touched one. Well, aside from when I was that age myself." The woman giggles. "I'm not a monster, I know that it's the most horrible thing you can do to a child. It's not that I'm attracted to boys as a species; I'm only attracted to the way they look, which is completely different. It's a horrible burden you know, this secret. It's stopped me from marrying and raising my own family because I have a terrible fear of what I'd do to my own children. So I live alone, I've discovered some marvellous comic books that the Japanese write, they're almost as good as the real thing. And there's a perfectly lovely boy in the next town who comes and sees me occasionally. For a price. He looks so much younger than he really is." Something sad and desperately lonely flicks the corner of her mouth. "But no one can know for so many obvious reasons. And I flirt madly with any handsome man who comes in so that everyone else thinks I'm just a pathetic old woman, instead of a monster." She taps his bill into the register with practiced hands.

 

"Well, er..." Dean fumbles, "Thanks...for your, um, honesty."

 

"You're perfectly welcome, young man."

 

As Dean moves away another man steps up to the counter, and she greets him with the same false delight that she'd shown Dean. Dean rubs the back of his neck and thinks that being given the truth can be an awful thing.

 

"I'll meet you there," he tells Ruby on the way out, and walks away as she tries to ask him how he already knows where they're going.

 

**

 

The sleet is coming down hard as the Impala's windscreen wipers whine in protest, straining to keep up. The road is slippery and it's taking all of Dean's concentration and skill to keep his baby on the road. The weather is unbelievably foul; it's demonic in all senses of the word, violent winds, sleet, lightning striking again and again. This isn't the first time Dean's driven through something like this, but this has been going on for hours and his hands are cramping up and so are his feet. He can barely see ten metres ahead. When he hits a pothole and almost spins out, he realises that this is going to get him killed. The trees are tossing and the powerlines are swaying and he peers desperately ahead, looking for somewhere where the car won't get hit by flying tree branches or get struck by lightning. Finally he spots a tiny embankment, just higher than the Impala's roof, and figures that this is about the best he's going to get. He pulls over, contemplates getting the canvas cover out of the boot, but for once in his life he decides that he'd much prefer to save his own skin over that of the Impala's. He pats the dash in apology, but all the Impala does is rock side to side in the wind.

 

There's a tremendous crack, lightning so close that Dean's almost deafened. He yelps in pain and covers his ears in reflex. When the ringing subsides and he opens his eyes, a tree barely thirty metres away is split in two and on fire. It's an absolutely stunning sight to see, made all that much more impressive by the silhouette of a gigantic hound against the flames.

 

Dean's probably supposed to frightened but frankly my dear, there's only so much one person can go through without becoming somewhat jaded. With a deep sigh, Dean leans over and grabs the rifle and a machete from the passenger seat, and prepares yet again to fight for his life and soul. There's a thump and the bonnet dips. The sleet wraps itself around a shadow that leans close to the windscreen. A gap in the water running down appears, a V shape. It disappears. Then another V shape in a different place. This disappears as well, but the V keeps coming back. _Oh,_ Dean thinks, _Oh, help,_ because he knows what this is: there is a hellhound standing on the bonnet of the Impala, and _it is licking the glass in front of his face._ Slowly, he eases back the safety on the rifle. Then, there is a bowel-loosening growl and a violent thud. The Impala is hit so hard that she actually skids sideways. There's the briefest flash of two pairs of eyes- one pair red, one pair yellow- there's a huge splash in the mud, a chunk from the embankment is knocked down to land on the Impala's roof. The sounds of a violent struggle and vicious snarls that give way to yelping, which fade away into the distance.

 

And like that, the storm comes to an end. Like someone shutting a window, like turning off a tap. The wind stops so suddenly that it's eerie, unnatural. The violent sleet eases to a mild drizzle. Clutching the gun and machete, Dean cautiously steps out of the car. The lightning-struck tree is still blazing, but then it's a heavy old hardwood, dense and thick with sap. It'll smoulder for days yet.

 

Automatically, Dean checks the Impala. The piece of the embankment that had come down on the Impala is only mud. All in all, the car has survived the storm and the hounds unscathed.  Apart from the corrosion on the windscreen that is; turns out that hellhound spit is acidic. Dean swears and goes and gets the detailing kit from out of the boot.

 

**

 

When he pulls into town, it's dead.

 

Not 2am on a Wednesday sort of dead, but dead dead, no lights at all, no movement. Plenty of animals though, with one small problem: they're dead too. Necks broken, eviscerated, cats and dogs, some birds. Dean flinches when the Imapa's headlights strike a gigantic white cockatoo, still on the ground, wings stretched out wide. It's so beautiful that it's tragic it's dead. It should be in an aviary, dancing, not alone in the dark.

 

When Dean pulls up at a T section, the headlights strike the windows of a house. Immediately the curtains twitch. A woman appears at the window, hands moving frantically. At first Dean thinks she's trying to call for help, but then he realises that she's trying to motion him away, to make him run from whatever is hiding in the dark. There's no possible way she can see him through the glare of the headlights, so the only thing he can do is turn and keep going.

 

The antiquarian's house is on the other side of town. He can actually see it; it's up the side of a small hill, and it's the only place with the lights on.

 

As he comes to an intersection, automatically slowing down even though there's nothing to slow down for, there's movement. It's a very large dog, some sort of bulky Great Dane or leggy Mastiff, on its legs, shaking like it's in some form of violent epileptic fit. For a moment he thinks that the blackness around its neck is a shadow, but the violent shaking continues, lifting the dog up off its feet, and that's when it clicks that something much larger than the dog has seized it by the neck and is shaking it to death. As Dean watches, the dog is thrown some metres into the air. It lands hard, and is then violently and messily disembowelled. The spray of gore sprays through the air, falling onto a silhouette of yes, you guessed it, a hellhound.

 

There's a thud on the window. Dean has his revolver in hand without conscious thought and almost shoots Ruby by accident, and then almost shoots Ruby deliberately, but ultimately decides not to. She's hammering at the window to be let in. He reaches behind him and yanks the door lock up and she's into the Impala like a shot, slamming the door behind her.

 

"Drive, drive," She screams, "They're everywhere! We have to get out of here!"

 

"And go where?" Dean snaps, stepping on the accelerator. "There's animal corpses _everywhere._ "

 

"We have to get to the Colt. Yellow Eyes is here, that's why he's sent the hellhounds. We have to get the Colt and get out of here. Drive! We have to move now!"

 

"Okay, fine, we'll do that," Dean tells her, and floors it towards the antiquary's house.

 

When they pull up, every single light in the house is blazing and there's a faint but perceptible whine in the air, the house's private generator working far too hard. The front door is open, and there's a human body sprawled in the gap. As Dean gets out, sacred knife in each boot, a revolver tucked into the back of his jeans, machete and rifle in hand, he can see it's a man of middling age. With Ruby at his back he approaches; there's no mark on the man that he can see and no signs of a pulse. Dean steps carefully over him and continues into the house. And has to stop, take a second to adjust.

 

The place is filled with weapons.

 

Floor to ceiling glass cabinets holding racks upon racks of every weapon Dean's ever seen or heard of, and quite a few he hasn't. Rifles, revolvers, muskets, blunderbusses, swords, knives, machetes, bayonets, clubs, maces, chains, hell, even an entire row of kubotans in one cabinet. This place would make an entire South African hardcore separatist guerrilla platoon back away carefully and pretend to have urgent business elsewhere.

 

"Who the hell is this guy?" Dean breathes in combined horror and awe.

 

"Woman," says Ruby flatly.

 

"What?"

 

"Woman," Ruby repeats, pointing at a series of photographs and licenses framed and hung on hooks between one cabinet and another. They showed a grandmotherly old woman, the sort with gingham curtains and apple pie in the oven, posing with her weapons the way a grandmother would pose with her grandchildren. "And I think that's her over there," Ruby adds, pointing at a withered foot sticking through the doorway of the next room.

 

Dean can smell blood. Stepping cautiously into the next room shows a pile of disfigured corpses stacked up on top of each other. The antiquary had put up one hell of a fight; there's a dozen of them, knife wounds, gun wounds, faces blown off, one even disembowelled. The antiquary herself is covered in blood, but aside from cuts on her hands (John's voice whispers in the back of Dean's head, _fight with a knife and you will get cut, no matter what_ ) there is no obvious fatal wound, not even when Dean rolls her over. And as he moves further into the house the corpse count keeps going higher, but after the bloodbath in the second room, all of the other corpses haven't a mark on them. It only adds yet another layer of creepy onto the whole situation and Dean wishes to God that John and Bobby were with him. Instead he's got a demon of highly questionable alliances, a neck that feels perpetually like there's an ice pack on it, and only himself to rely on.

 

As he eases himself into the final room, a kitchen that opens onto the backyard, he finds more corpses. They're lying at the feet of a girl who's very much alive and sitting on the heavy kitchen table, gloved hands by her sides, her ankles crossed neatly. She has very long, very straight blonde hair, and unbearably sad eyes. Her coat is open at the throat just enough to show a thick whorl of keloid tissue.

 

"Kill her," Ruby hisses in Dean's ear, "Kill her now before she can make her move."

 

"Hello, Dean," says the girl.

 

"Hello," Dean replies politely. "I'm sorry, but I don't know your name."

 

"Now, kill her now!" snarls Ruby.

 

"My name is Lily."

 

"And what do lilies represent? Death, that's what! Dean, she'll kill _both_ of us if you don't shoot her now!"

 

"Ruby," Dean says absently, "If you don't shut up, you're the one that'll be getting shot."

 

"It's not a bad assumption on her part," Lily says, "I mean, I'm not going to kill you, but I have killed a lot of people."

 

"All these are yours?" Dean makes a motion at the corpses littering the rooms.

 

"Yes," says Lily. She tilts her head to the side in a motion that is suddenly, painfully familiar. "All I had to do was touch them. It's very easy."

 

Dean stares at her. Then, "You're one of Samuel's sisters."

 

"Yes," Lily says sadly. "The last one. Some of my brothers are still alive though. But not for long. They're going mad. They're burning up. Their flames will be snuffed out, very soon."

 

"You're the one who's mad," Ruby growls. Lily giggles. It's a horrible, hysterical sound.

 

"Mad as mad can be!" Lily giggles again, and it ends on a sob. She rubs at her eyes with her gloved fingers. Dean can see her shaking. She sniffles and raises her red rimmed eyes to meet Dean's. She reaches behind her and says, "You're looking for this, aren't you?" In her hands is a Colt revolver.

 

Ruby screams and lunges forward, her knife raised overhead. Dean grabs her by her hair and slams her against the wall.

 

"She's not going to hurt us, Ruby," Dean tells her wearily.

 

"I can only hurt you if I touch you," Lily says softly, rubbing absently at the Colt's barrel.

 

"How is Samuel?" Dean asks.

 

"Hurting." Her mouth twists. "He's only allowed out when Sammy's about to get punished. Sammy made him. Made him to get hurt in his place. When Daddy gets his whip out, Sammy goes away and lets Samuel bleed instead."

 

Dean flinches.

 

"That's why they're both still alive, see? It sounds weird but they're the sanest of all of us." Lily smiles. It's a sad, sweet smile. "You love him, don't you? You love Samuel."

 

"Yes," Dean says quietly, "I do."

 

"I'm glad."

 

"This is so sweet," snarls Ruby, clambering to her feet. "What do you _want?"_

 

Lily's eyes snap to meet Ruby's. Something intensely, hideously ugly slithers across her face. "Shut up, you filthy demon. One touch and I can send you back to Hell, just like the rest of you vermin. You'll spend _years_ clawing yourself out again." Her gaze evens out again, searches, meets Dean's. "I want to die. I _want_ to _die."_

 

 "Dying's easy to do," Dean tells her.

 

"You misunderstand," Lily says with a brittle smile. "I want to die. I want not to exist. I want to end. I don't want a transition, I want cessation of existence. Tell Dean what Hell is, demon."

 

"A prison," Ruby says grudgingly, "A prison of blood and bone and flesh and pain."

 

"That's right." Lily smiles again, but this time it's too broad, twitching at the corners, too many teeth. "And that's where I'm heading when all this is over. The things I've done, the things that have been done to me, the things that have been put _in_ me... I'm going to Hell. There's no other place for me to go. This is the only place that would ever take me, ever. And this torture will go on and on and on, for eternity. There's no end in eternity."

 

"Tell me how to help you," Dean says quietly.

 

Lily holds out her hand. In her palm are two bullets.

 

"Everything must be paid for," she says. "One of these is yours. One of them is mine."

 

"And the price for mine is your death." He shuts his eyes and draws a deep breath. He sets the rifle and machete down. Ruby, for once, is quiet. He holds out his arms. "Come to me."

 

And once again Lily smiles, the sad, sweet smile that Dean could maybe learn to love, if only there were more time. She slides off the table and, with only the faintest hesitation, gives Dean the Colt. He opens it and slides the bullets in, one after the other.

 

"Put your hands around me," and Lily does that too. She rests her head against his chest, slides her gloved hand around his waist.

 

"You know," she says dreamily, "I tried escaping once, just like Samuel. I was free for two months. I thought that without the blood I'd be safe. That I'd be able to touch someone who wasn't my brother or sister. I met someone. I kissed her. One kiss. Just one kiss. And she died." She tilts her head, looks up at him. "Only one kiss, but I think I could have loved her forever. Does that sound strange?"

 

"No, it doesn't," Dean whispers into her hair. "Shut your eyes."

 

Lily smiles. "He loves you too, you know. They both do."

 

"I already know, but thank you for telling me."

 

Dean sets the barrel of the Colt against her chest. He doesn't hesitate before he pulls the trigger. He owes her that much.

 

And afterwards Dean is left standing there, covered in ashes, Colt in his hand, tears dripping down his face, and his mother's kiss whispering through his skin.

 

**

 

The dream Dean has that night is a different one. It's of Sammy, and of Samuel. And all they do is cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The short story that Sam and Dean are discussing is 'Gun for the Devil' by Angela Carter. You'll be seeing it again.


	16. Pistol Party

_Today I coo, today I caw_   
_I have a pistol party and I kill ‘em all_   
_I think I might be scared_   
_Of the man and the men with their hands inside_   
_And the women, oh, the women all they do is cry_   
_And I, well I lose my mind_   
  
_And now I found brimstone in my garden_   
_I found roses set on fire_   
_And I found Jesus, what a liar_   


-‘Little Pistol’ by Mother Mother

 

 

 

 

_Dean wakes suddenly. Terror coils around his brain stem. He stays very still and waits for whatever woke him up to make itself known._

_“You killed her,” Someone hisses, “You killed her.”_

_Silently, Dean slips his hand under his pillow for his gun. It’s not there._ It’s not there.

_“You killed her.”_

_Weapons, weapons, what can be used as a weapon? Dean lunges for the lamp on the bedside table, to throw it in the direction of the voice. But he’s clumsy with sleep and he only knocks it over. Light floods the room and washes over the overgrown skeleton that is Dean’s brother. The boy’s face is twisted, feral with rage and grief, and gaunt with lack of food. Dean sees the boy’s eyes: a dark brown. It’s Sammy, and Dean’s terror increases._

_“It’s what she wanted,” Dean says, scuttling backwards, striking his head against the wall. The bed creaks as Sammy slides onto the mattress. He crawls forwards, a hand snapping out to clamp onto Dean’s foot, squeezing hard. Dean remembers being groped by Sammy on the night the boy- both of the boys, those unholy twins- escaped from Bobby’s house, how he’d been pinned underneath Sammy, helpless, fearing rape._

_“Lily was mad. She didn’t know what she wanted.”_

_“You’re mad too, Sammy, and you know exactly what you want.”_

_Sammy tilts his head and sneers. “And what do I want, Dean? You tell me.”_

_“You want to be complete.”_

 

 **

 

Disorientation. Light is streaming in through the window, shinning into his eyes. The blankets are twisted around Dean’s legs, and when he gropes under the pillow he finds the comforting hardness of his revolver. He shudders, heart pounding, soaked with sweat. Too real. The dream had been too real. The madness of Sammy poisons the room and Dean staggers out of bed, towards the bathroom, shoving his head into the washbasin and turning on the tap. He stays under long enough to give him a headache before his legs give out, and he slides down until his rump hits the tiles. For the first time in his life he truly understands why women are afraid to walk alone at night, and he wishes that he didn’t. He remembers what Lily had said, about Samuel being the sanest of all of Azazel’s children, and believes it.

 

He hops into the shower to sluice off the sweat, but his hands shake too much for him to shave. Giving it up as a bad idea, he pads naked to his gym bag. He rats through it, searching for clean clothes, but there are none. Usually Dean just rinses them out in the sink of whatever motel he’s staying at, but today he decides to treat himself to a trip to the Laundromat. Maybe he’ll even go all out and buy fabric softener. Luxury.

 

His phone beeps. It’s a text message from his father, asking him if Bobby’s been in contact lately. The cold spot on the back of his neck twinges with irritation, and Dean agrees. The way John and Bobby keep refusing to talk to each other is driving Dean stir crazy. He gathers up his dirty clothes and leaves to run his chores.

 

The Laundromat is noisy, humid and comforting. Surrounded by the sounds of people, a dozen unknowing lookouts for trouble, his eyes flutter shut. He begins the short, sweet slide into dreams. Then the kiss blazes into life and Dean snaps awake. He smells a faint whiff of sulphur. A small child of indeterminate sex starts babbling about a girl who just appeared out of thin air, like she was invisible, before being hushed by its mother. An old rhyme that Mary had taught nearly two decades ago floats through Dean’s mind: _one day upon the stair, I saw a man who wasn’t there. He wasn’t there again today..._

 

“I wish you’d go away,” Dean sighs, opening his eyes. Ruby forces a smile.

 

“No such luck,” she says. She kicks one little foot against the floor nervously, glancing sideways at Dean, chewing her lip.

 

“What do you want?”

 

“The pleasure of your company.”

 

“Try again,” Dean says flatly.

 

Ruby kicks the floor again. “I’m hungry,” she whines. People are starting to talk again as their brains convince them that it’s impossible for someone to just magically appear from midair, and that there must have been a glitch in their software. All save that one small child, insistent about the invisible lady. Dean smiles grimly to himself. The kid is going to make a great hunter one day. That, or a lawyer.

 

“No one’s stopping you.”

 

“Come to breakfast with me?”

 

“I’m not hungry,” but then Dean’s stomach grumbles loudly, calling him a liar. He scowls at Ruby, who gives him a strained smile.

 

“Come on. Come with me.”

 

“No.” Dean looks her squarely in the eye and Ruby wilts a little more.

 

“I haven’t...I haven’t been entirely honest with you, Dean.”

 

“Really.” Dean smirks at her and she suddenly bars up.

 

“Hey, I’ve been trying to help you. I gave you that bullet, didn’t I? I helped you at that old lady’s house, when you were trying to get killed by electricity girl. I even saved you from hellhounds. What more do I have to do?”

 

“There’s nothing you can do,” Dean tells her, “Because whatever it is, it’ll never be enough. You’ll still be a demon.”

 

Ruby knuckles at her eyes, as if she is about to start crying. Dean is unmoved. “There’s someone you need to meet.”

 

“No.”

 

“Please? You won’t regret it. I promise.”

 

“No.”

 

“Dean...Dean, you owe me.”

 

“No.”

 

“He’ll hurt me if you don’t come,” Ruby whimpers.

 

“I don’t care,” Dean tells her, and is shocked to realise that he’s lying. He shuts his eyes to clear his head and when he opens them again, Ruby has vanished as suddenly as she had appeared.

 

**

 

“What do you want?” snarls Bobby, yanking open the door. Dean takes a step back and raises his hands in surrender.

 

“Just stopping by to see how you’re going,” Dean says, and steps back again, catching himself just before he falls off the veranda.

 

“Dean. Right. Sorry. Thought you were someone else.” Bobby holds the door open for him, and Dean steps obediently inside. The house is dark and smells strongly of rum and beer. It rolls off of Bobby’s breath and Dean finds himself leaning subtly away. At least Bobby has been remembering to shower. Thank god for small mercies.

 

Even by Bobby’s standards the place is chaotic. There are books absolutely everywhere, and parcels too.

 

“This your doing?” Bobby gestures at the mess.

 

“Uh, no. I don’t think so.”

 

Bobby demands, “Are you sending me the books?”

 

Dean blinks, genuinely confused. “What books?”

 

Bobby glowers at him. Finally he says grudgingly, “Want a beer?”

 

They go out back onto the veranda to drink them.

 

“I’ve been getting books,” Bobby tells him. “They just keep turning up. I get them with the post, they come in special delivery, some of them are left here by the door and I find ‘em. It feels like I have a hundred of the damn things. And they’re all about one thing.”

 

“Demons?”

 

“Yep. And get this: all of them have a lot in them about negotiation.”

 

“A deal with the Devil.”

 

“Yeah.” Bobby takes another swig of beer, watches Dean from the corner of his eye. “How’d you know?”

 

Dean reaches inside his pocket. Next to his heart are the bullets, and they roll between his fingers like they have a liquid core. He gives them to Bobby. Bobby frowns at them thoughtfully. And then Dean pulls the Colt revolver from his other pocket and Bobby almost falls off of the veranda.

 

“Is that-”

 

“Yes,” says Dean flatly.

 

“How the _hell_ did you get it?”

 

“Dad sent me to this house, to meet a weapons collector. She was dead when we arrived. So were a lot of other people.” Dean finishes his beer. “I want to show you something.”

 

They go back inside. Dean goes to the study, to the wall peppered with charts and diagrams and lists of dates. He takes down a photograph, of a teenager with very long, very straight blonde hair and unbearably sad eyes, and hands it to Bobby. “The house was full of corpses. I think they were all demon meat suits. This girl was there. She said she killed them all. And then she gave me the gun, and two bullets.”

 

Bobby looks at him with flat disbelief. “She just gave them to you, huh?”

 

“Not quite.” Dean takes back the photograph. He gently wipes the dust off of it with his fingertips. “I had to buy them.”

 

“With what?”

 

“Her death.”

 

Bobby looks at the bullets in the palm of his hand. “She gave you two bullets.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And you shot her with the third.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Bobby looks so weary as he rubs his hand across his mouth. “All the books say that once you’re shot by the Colt, that’s it. Soul death. No Heaven, no Hell. No ghosts or poltergeists. You’ve reached the end of the line.”

 

“She told me that everything has a price.” With care, Dean pins Lily’s photograph back up onto the wall. He takes a pen from the desk and writes the word ‘deceased’ on the label that has her name. “She said that she was heading directly to Hell. Do not pass go. She wanted it all to end, right there and then.”

 

“So you shot her?”

 

“Just like she asked me to.”

 

“So this leaves us with two bullets.”

 

“And four more to find.”

 

“Dean. How do you know that there are four more bullets?”

 

Dean stares at him. “Haven’t you been reading those books, Bobby? All about making deals with the Devil? There’s always seven bullets. The first six are yours, but the seventh belongs to the Devil and that’s the price.”

 

“I see.” Bobby looks thoughtfully at the wall. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d found the Colt?”

 

“I was worried about the phone line being bugged.” This isn’t a lie, but it’s only a fraction of the truth. The fact is, the kiss had burned whenever Dean had picked up the phone to ring either Bobby or John. And Dean can’t even begin to figure out how to tell either of them about the strange cold patch on the back of his neck that grows stronger and then fades, and then grows stronger and then fades, over and over again but never disappearing entirely. And not only is it hard to explain, it’s none of their business either.

 

A kiss is a very private thing, after all.

 

**

 

After dinner, Dean hits the books while Bobby walks the boundaries of the junkyard, checking the fences and the buried lines of metal and salt. He’s studying up on hellhounds, but he’s disappointed to find that there’s not much there that he doesn’t already know. Hunters specialise in myths and legends, sorting the fine threads of the real from the rest of the junk, but no one seems to have had direct contact with these monsters and lived to tell the tale. Incredibly intelligent, loyal only to their master, and never pausing in their hunt to eat or sleep. They cannot be bargained with, they cannot be bought.

 

Dean thinks of red and yellow eyes flashing in the dark and shudders. If these monsters are so determined, why is he still alive?

 

Across the room, Dean’s mobile phone buzzes. He ignores it and keeps reading. Finally it stops.

 

There’s a gigantic crash as Bobby comes storming into the house. Dean’s on his feet without even stopping to think about it, gun in hand.

 

“It’s your father,” Bobby barks, “He trapped. He’s surrounded by-”

 

“Hellhounds.”

 

 “And you know that how?”

 

“Let’s get going,” Dean says in lieu of explanation. “We’ll take separate cars, ‘cause they’re already on my trail.”

 

Bobby stares at him with an expression of pure horror.

 

While they pack, Bobby sets his phone on speaker and they listen to John holding his ground. The sound of his voice echoes strangely, because he’s caught in the head of a collapsed mineshaft. There’s iron ore there, steel railway tracks, but he’s rapidly running out of bullets and rock salt. _“I can’t see their bodies,”_ John shouts, over and over again, _“But I can see their red eyes whenever I hit one. They’re just playing with me. What the hell is going on here?”_

 

It’s the closest John’s ever came to giving up, and Dean stops suddenly, chilled to the bone. “Come on,” Bobby growls, grabbing him by the shoulder. “We have to get going!”

 

They pelt out of their house and into their respective cars and tear out of the yard. They’ve decided to take separate roads on the way to John. Of course, this is the absolute worst thing you can do in any horror movie, but the hellhounds are already on Dean’s trail and if they get him, it’s possible that Bobby at least might survive. The Impala screams as Dean floors it, pushing faster and faster as he drives into the growing dark. And then, when he comes to a crossroads, he slams on the brakes and gets out of the car, the Colt in hand.

 

“You fucker,” Dean snarls, “Get out here, _right now.”_

 

“Dean,” Ruby says, her hands held up in submission as she steps towards him, “Try to be polite, okay?”

 

“Well, we have to give Dean a little leeway, don’t we?” A man, turned out impeccably in suit and tie steps forward into the beam’s of the Impala’s headlights. “After all, he’s worried about his only other living relative.”

 

“Call off the hellhounds. Now!” Dean screams, aiming the Colt dead centre between the man’s eyes.

 

“What makes you think they’re mine?”

 

“Red eyes. That’s why. Red eyes and this is a crossroads.”

 

“Making me a crossroads demon. You’re smarter than I thought. Not that that’s very hard.”

 

_“Call them off right now!”_

 

“Heigh ho,” says Crowley, and smiles.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. Already working on the next. Will be back to polish the writing errors in a couple of days. Keeping continuity in this monster is getting increasingly difficult.


	17. Red Right Hand

_He's a ghost, he's a god, he's a man, he's a guru_  
You're one microscopic cog in his catastrophic plan  
Designed and directed by his red right hand

 

-‘Red Right Hand’ Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

 

 

 

“What do you want from me?”

 

Crowley gives a perfectly charming smile. “Straight to the point,” he says, in a voice like gravel and butane, “I appreciate that.”

 

There’s a clicking noise behind Dean, the overlong claws of a dog against the bitumen, and a putrid exhalation against the side of his face. Terror makes his knees go weak; _there’s a hellhound between him and the Impala._

 

Crowley says, “Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m a man of we-”

 

“You’re not a man. You’re not even human,”

 

“-A demon then, with a vested interest in your current situation. My name is Crowley.”

 

“Pleased to meet you,” Dean says bitterly. More claws clicking against the bitumen; he counts three, maybe four hellhounds in addition to the one behind him. There’s absolutely no chance of reaching either the Impala or Crowley before the hellhounds would be on him. Dean wraps his hand around the Colt and snarls impotently. Of all the stupid, stupid, amateur mistakes. There’s something about Samuel that’s thrown him off kilter; he’s made one mistake after another since the night he watched John hold the boy down. Mistakes then, mistakes now, and maybe the final one at that.

 

“I have a proposition for you,” Crowley’s gravelly voice grinds against Dean, making him feel bruised and worn. The kiss burns like terror.

 

“Go fuck yourself,” Dean snaps.

 

Ruby looks tense and miserable. “Dean,” she starts to say, but Crowley makes a quick gesture of his fingers and she flinches away, steps backwards. Crowley’s eyes glow red in the darkness. If Dean could get off one shot, half their problems would be solved. But something drips down his shoulder, oh god, the hellhound is _drooling_ on him, and he knows that he’d be dead before he could pull the trigger.

 

“I have a proposition for you,” Crowley repeats. “If you accept, we’ll mutually benefit. If not...”

 

The hellhound snarls, wanting Dean’s meat. He can’t stop the shudder that starts at his toes, goes up knee and thigh and diaphragm and wraps itself around his shoulders.

 

“I’m showing the stick and offering the carrot,” Crowley says, “Do as I say and you’ll get your overgrown brother back. Turn me down, I’ll have my boys here tear your father from limb to limb while you watch. Do you understand?” Grudgingly, Dean nods. “Good. As it turns out, we have a mutual goal. I want Azazel’s hide to hang on my wall.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I’m the man who would be king.” Crowley smiles, a thoroughly unpleasant gesture. “And Azazel is in my way.”

 

“Politics, huh?”

 

“Oh yes.”

 

“So what’s in it for me, other than _not_ meeting the Beast of Gevaudan?”

 

“These.” Crowley thrusts his hands in his pocket. Dean has the Colt up and aimed before he even thinks. There’s another blast of putrid air against his face, and the sound of metal crashing against metal as the hellhound snaps its jaws in warning. “There’s no need for that,” Crowley murmurs. He shows Dean what he had in his pocket: bullets, four of them. It’s too far away to see if they’re engraved, but the Colt twitches in his hand like it has a will of its own, and Dean knows that those bullets belong to it. “Do as I say, and I’ll give you these and make you my ally. Defy me and my hounds will eat you. From the toes up.” Crowley bares his teeth in an ugly smile.

 

“If you want to make an alliance, why send your hounds after me?”

 

“Are you a moron? They’ve been protecting you.”

 

“Not always,” Dean snaps.

 

“True. Still, it’s a form of introduction. Sticks and carrots. Stick with me, kid, I’ll make you a star.”

 

There’s only one thing Dean can do. Despite the kiss burning in rage, despite the terror and the bile welling up in his throat. Dean says, “Yes.”

 

And Crowley kisses him, with lips and tongue that feel like dead, greasy meat.

 

**

 

In the dawn light, Dean, Bobby and John gather around Bobby’s kitchen table and sit in exhausted silence. John’s face and hands are clean, but the rest of him is filthy with blood and dirt. Bobby’s hands are trembling, and occasionally make little motions like they’d like to wrap around a shot glass. The Colt and the six bullets sit dead centre of the table.

 

“You should’ve asked us first,” John says numbly. Dean ignores him. John’s been saying that for the past two hours, like a CD that skips. Dean’s long past trying to defend himself or trying to explain. He’s too tired. Even the kiss is tired. It’s still there, but only lightly. Easy to ignore. “Are you listening to me, boy?”

 

“Yeah, Dad. I’m listening.”

 

“You should’ve...” John trails off, shaking his head. “I’m going to lose both of you. And I can’t... _You should have asked!”_ He screams suddenly, slamming his fist down. One of the bullets falls over and starts to roll off the table. Dean catches it and wordlessly hands it to John. The engraving glitters. Lucky number seven. John’s lip curls. He shakes his head violently, throws the bullet back at the Colt, and walks out. The bathroom door opens and shuts with exaggerated care, and after that the ancient water pipes start to squeal.

 

“Dean,” Bobby says, looking almost as tired as Dean feels, “I gotta ask you something. You won’t like it, but I have to do to it.”

 

“What, Bobby?”

 

“Did you and Samuel ever...”

 

“Ever what?”

 

The tips of Bobby’s ears go red. Dean suspects that under the beard, Bobby is scarlet with embarrassment. “Ever have sex,” He spits out.

 

Dean snorts. “No. We shared a bed, that’s it. And for the record he offered, and I turned him down.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Are you serious? I’m not about to have sex with my brother,” Dean says with disgust.

 

Bobby clears his throat. The tips of his ears are almost purple. “That’s not what I meant.”

 

“You mean, why did I share a bed with him?” Dean’s mouth twitches. “I honestly don’t really know that myself. I didn’t really think about it. I just did it.” He scratches at the back of his neck but the kiss has nothing to say.

 

Bobby grunts. “Probably best if you don’t make a habit of it.”

 

“You think?” Dean smirks. But the smirk fades as the weariness floods back in. “I gotta turn in,” he says. “G’night, Bobby.” Bobby makes a half hearted gesture of his fingers as if waving Dean goodbye.

 

Passing the bathroom door, Dean hesitates, wanting to clean his teeth again. But he’d scrubbed for ten minutes straight when he’d first got back and now his gums won’t stop bleeding. He goes into the bedroom, shuts the door and kicks off his boots. “Samuel,” He says firmly, “We have to talk.”

 

He’s not conscious of falling asleep. He just sorts of drifts off, sprawled all over the roomy, comfortable mattress. Then it dips as Samuel crawls onto it. Without thinking, he brings his arm around the boy. “They think we’re screwing,” Dean murmurs.

_“We would be, if you weren’t such a prude.”_

_“It’ll never happen.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“What, other than it’s gross and sick and everything that’s wrong in the world?”_

_Samuel tucks his head under Dean’s chin. “Other than that.”_

_“You just don’t have any mojo for me, Samuel. I don’t feel it and I never will.”_

_Samuel huffs. “Like I said: prude.”_

_They lie there for a while. Dean starts to drift into heavier dreams, but then Samuel gives a little wiggle. “Dean?”_

_“Mmm?”_

_“You’re going to have to be careful.”_

_“Why’s that?”_

_“Because Jake is coming.”_

_“Who’s Jake?”_

It’s at this point Dean rolls off the bed, hitting the floor with an undignified thud. “Son of a bitch.” His thigh aches with something that’s doubtless going to be a spectacular bruise. He remembers the lovely, comfortably huge mattress that he’d been sprawled out on in his dream, and glares at the ancient and tiny bed that Bobby sadistically inflicts on his guests. It’s too small for even a single person, and he can’t for the life of him figure out how he and Samuel managed to share it without insertion.

 

Dean contemplates going back to sleep, but he’s still wearing the clothes from yesterday, the clothes he’d worn when Crowley had kissed him, and he feels grimy and vaguely sordid. Time for a shower.

 

He grabs a towel and change of clothes. In the bathroom he stares at the mirror. His reflection is pale and there’s something haunted lurking behind his eyes. Closing his eyes in self defence, he takes a deep breath, then another. When he opens them again he smiles at himself, trying to capture that ‘aw, shucks’ expression that works so well on women, but fails abysmally. It’s horrible to look at and he turns away.

 

“Look,” he says out loud, “It’s not that I don’t appreciate you being here, but could I have a little privacy, please?”

 

The kiss tingles and fades away. Dean is immediately struck by sense of deep and profound loss, and then everything that’s happened suddenly rushes towards him. He feels violated, physically and mentally. Sammy, Meg, Crowley. Their faces, their touch, swirl around in his head, hammering at his brain. Without Mary to protect him, it rips at him and he staggers to his feet and strips off. In the shower he fills his head with the sound of white noise and the faces of a hundred anonymous girls. Ruthlessly, he forces his body to co-operate as he jerks off, trying desperately to make it feel like it belongs to him. When he comes back down from that old familiar high he feels even worse. He slumps against the shower tiles. “You can come back now,” he mutters, feeling in a daze. The back of his neck tingles and slowly, the kiss returns. The memories of the people who’d violated him start to distance themselves. With a profound sense of despair, Dean realises that the only thing that’s right in his life is a kiss on the back of his neck, left there by a ghost.

 

He gets dressed. There really isn’t anything else that he can do.

 

Wandering into Bobby’s study, he’s confronted by the wall of Azazel’s children. Scanning the list of known survivors, he finds a picture of a handsome but grim looking young man. Name: Jake Tally. Known powers: super strength.

 

“Fuck this shit,” Dean says, and goes back to bed.

 

**

 

It’s dark when he wakes up again. He pulls on a pair of jeans over his boxers, and wanders barefoot and bare-chested into the kitchen. On the table is a note from John, saying that he’s on a recognisance mission with Bobby, and that the Colt is safely locked in Bobby’s panic room, protected with layer upon layer of protective runes and traps and circles. It’s as safe as it’s possible to be.

 

Dean sticks his head in the fridge. It’s a raid. He grabs every jar and plate in there, arranges then neatly on the kitchen bench. Slowly and lovingly, he sets about creating the world’s best sandwich, to hell with Subway. He layers meat on top of salad and concocts his own esoteric recipe of chutney and relish. The sandwich is so huge he can barely wrap his hands around it, and slowly, lovingly, he eats it. Absolutely delicious. Dean burps in pleasure and is contemplating another when something huge and heavy strikes the side of the house.

 

The entire building shudders. The kiss suddenly wakes and becomes a bite. Bookshelves tip over and come crashing to the floor, scattering antique paper and parchment. The lights go out; Dean flings himself to the floor and scuttles from the kitchen on hands and knees. Bobby has caches of knives and guns hidden all over the house; behind one of the upturned bookcases is a rifle and a bag of rounds; underneath Bobby’s desk is a silver plated Bowie knife and a flask of holy water; wedged behind the cushions of the lounge, seemingly by accident, is a maglite. Dean grabs these and leaves the house at a dead run. All of the lights in the car yard are off and he’s running blind in the darkness. He senses something _big_ fly over his head, and he trips and falls. The ground seems to shake as whatever it is lands, and there’s a deafening crash and the crunch of glass.

 

Terror licks at Dean’s mind; whatever is out there in the dark has just thrown two cars bodily into the air.

 

So this was Jake Tally.

 

Dean’s eyes are gradually getting used to the dark. He knows the yard well enough to feel his way behind a row of cars. He grips the maglite, which is utterly useless to him right now. As soon as he turns it on Jake will know exactly where he is.

 

“Hello, Dean,” booms a voice from out of the dark.

 

“Hello,” Dean answers, “I take it that you’re Jake. Samuel told me you were coming.”

 

“Fucking snitch,” Jake snarls, “Fucking little bitch. He always gets in the way. He’s always sneaking around and making his little plans.”

 

“Really?” Dean replies, feeling his way deeper into the car yard. “He’s good at planning, I take it?”

 

“He never does anything but.” There’s a crunch of gravel as Jake moves around. He grunts and throws another car into the air. It groans in protest, and then shatters as it hits the ground. Dean clamps his hand over his own mouth to try and quieten his breathing, so that Jake won’t hear him and know where he is. Then another car screams as it’s thrown and Dean realises that Jake already does know, and he is moving before he even consciously realises this. He strikes out wildly in the dark, running straight into a car and bouncing off of it. Blood floods into his mouth as he cuts the inside of his cheek with his own molars. Staggering to his feet, he flings himself forward again, hands out, grasping at the air. Another car looms out of the darkness and he feels his way behind it, drooling blood.

 

“Marco! Polo!” Jake giggles hysterically, and Dean realises, with a sinking heart, that Jake is just as insane and broken as his brothers and sisters. Metal groans again as Jake picks up another wreck and flings it in Dean’s general direction. It passes overhead harmlessly, landing several rows away.

 

Dean’s hand grasps nothing; he’s lost the rifle, somewhere in the blackness. He still has the maglite and the bowie knife, but the rifle is long gone. It’s debatable whether it’d have been any use- the moon is a thin sliver in the sky, covered over with clouds- but still. No rifle. This means that he’s going to have to get within touching distance of Jake. And Jake has to die, because there’s no way someone, or something, with that kind of physical strength can be restrained.

 

Dean peers around the car, eyes straining to see something, anything. He thinks he can see something flash gold, very briefly, but he could be just imagining it.

 

“Where are you?” Jake says petuletly, “I can’t see you.”

 

As if Dean is about to tell him.

 

“Look, it’s very simple. Father wants the Colt. That’s it, that’s all we need. And then, you can just walk away. You’ll never hear from us again. You’ve my word.”

 

As if, as if. Somewhere beyond the salt packed barrier of buried iron, a hellhound snarls in frustration. It can’t pass over that line under the sand.

 

“Oh, fuck you,” Jake hisses. He flings another car into the air. It lands with a crash like lightning, far away from Dean.

 

The dark is starting to lighten some; Dean can discern large shapes standing out in the blackness, but he knows that this is as good as his night vision is going to get. Groping on the ground, he bruises his fingers on a brick acting as a chock behind a tyre. Slowly, he scrapes away at the plants and soil holding it in place.

 

“Deeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaan,” Jake whines, suddenly sounding so much like Samuel that Dean cringes. “Come on, I won’t hurt you. I prommiiiise.

 

The brick is free; Dean straightens and then, throws it into the air and gets ready to run. Another car is up and in the air in seconds, and he’s ready. He lunges out into the darkness, using the noise of the crash to cover his footsteps. Ducking behind another car he stills his breathing, waiting.

 

That small gold something glints again, and disappears before he can figure out what it is. But he’s pretty certain that it belongs to Jake. Maybe a button or something, or a large gold medallion around Jake’s neck. Dean grips the maglite very tightly and feels on the ground again. All he can find this time is gravel. He grabs a handful of it and flings it straight in Jake’s direction. An angry shriek tells Dean that his aim is true. Quickly he grabs another handful and throws it, waits for the crack of metal as Jake picks up another junked car, and legs it again, this time sideways. He ducks behind something that feels like an engine block on a pallet, and by some kind of miracle, his hand encounters a besser block. Delicately, carefully, he wiggles free the strands of thick, ropey grass that hold it to the ground.

 

“Fucking shit wipe.” Angry crunch of gravel underfoot; Jake is pacing out in the darkness. “I was going to go easy on you. But not anymore. I’m going to fucking _smear_ you, understand? I’m going to turn you into _paste.”_

 

The besser block is free. Setting the maglite very carefully at his feet, Dean picks up the block and holds it to his chest. He waits there, silent and watchful in the darkness. Jake paces back and forth and then, there it is, the tiny glint of gold. Two glints; Jake’s eyes are _glowing_ , which is its own kind of terror. Dean doesn’t stop to think; he throws the block straight at those eyes. A thick meaty thud is the result, followed by Jake screaming in rage and pain. Dean grabs the maglite and is on his feet and running towards the sound. Another car groans as Jake picks it up, still screaming as he does so. And Dean clicks on the maglite, shining it in Jake’s eyes. Jake shrieks again and instinctively flings his arm across his eyes to protect himself, letting go of the car as he does so.

 

And the car falls to the ground, straight on top of Jake Tally.

 

There’s a cough and the scream becomes a pitiful whimper. Super strength and invulnerability are not the same thing. Jake is crushed under the car, his head sticking out under the chasse, and all of his body save a single hand is pinned under it. In the light of the maglit, he coughs up a great gush of blood. Dean approaches warily, waiting for Jake to suddenly sit up and free himself, but the kiss on the back of his neck suddenly spreads like grief, and he knows that Jake is dying.

 

Dean sets the maglite to stay on and places it on the ground, carefully away from Jake’s and his eyes. The boy coughs piteously, his eyes huge and brown and terrified. Dean puts his own hand over the boys and very gently, squeezes.

 

“It’ll be all right. Everything is going to be all right. I promise.” He rubs his thumb over Jake’s palm, and sits down beside him. “You’re not alone. I won’t leave you.”

 

Jake coughs again. More blood from his mouth, even more blood spreading out from under the car body. Tears seep from the corner of his eyes. He gurgles deep in the back of his throat, and dies.

 

Dean stays there, in the dark, holding Jake’s slowly cooling hand, waiting for the dawn to come.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks very much to randomstasis for the beta on some of these chapters.
> 
> If you're wondering if I'm still alive at any point, you may want to check out my Livejournal, crystalwren_fic. I'll often post drafts there, along with bitching, whining, and whatever random crap I dredge up from the 'net.


	18. And the Ravens are Leaving the Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley pays a surprise visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty much posting this on the fly. There'll be errors, I'll be back later to clean them up.

_And the ravens are leaving the tower_  
 _And the ravens are leaving the tower_  
 _And the ravens are leaving the tower  
_ _Make your peace_

_I've got a taste for blood_  
 _Leave the weak, leave the young_  
 _I've got a taste for blood  
_ _I'm walking out without you_

 

‘Plans’ - Bloc Party

 

The cold dawn light finds Dean still sitting next to the crushed corpse of Jake Talley, still absentmindedly stroking the boy’s fingers, long gone hard and cold. He hears gravel crunching and he looks up to see John approaching.

 

“Dean,” John says quietly, “What happened here?”

 

Dean opens his mouth to reply, but all that comes out is a rasp. He’s suddenly aware that he’s freezing, shirtless and barefoot, and when he tries to stand he can’t because his feet are numb with cold and lack of circulation, and because he can’t bring himself to let go of Jake. John drops down on his haunches and, very gently, pries Dean’s hand open, releasing Jake’s own. Because of the cold and because of rigour mortis, the hand stays where it is, stiff, angled upward, undignified.

 

“Come on,” John says, wrapping Dean’s arm around his shoulder. He stands and, half carrying, half dragging, takes Dean back to the house where Bobby is waiting.

 

It is battered but still standing. There is a jeep chassis sticking half in, half out of the living room, but there is no listing, no obvious damage to the superstructure. Hopefully, the jeep hadn’t hit one of the load bearing walls and the house is still fundamentally sound. Hopefully. Dean sneaks a sideways look at Bobby, but Bobby’s face is set, oddly serene.

 

“Body,” grunts John curtly, and Bobby nods.

 

It takes a couple of goes before Dean can slur, “Jake Talley.” The cut inside his cheek opens and his mouth is suddenly full of blood. He spits on the ground.

 

“I’ll see to it,” Bobby says. He looks at John. “Take care of Dean. I’ll take care of the boy.” He turns and walks away, his back ramrod straight.

 

John hauls Dean into the house and parks him in the only kitchen chair still standing upright. There’s glass everywhere, papers and books, every window shattered, splinters, plaster, the odd rifle cartridge rolling under foot. John scrapes at the floor with a worn broom, before giving up and fetching the vacuum cleaner. As John cleans the worst of the mess, Dean’s abused feet begin to complain in earnest. The circulation returning is painful enough, but with it comes the pain from the scrapes, the cuts and the bruises on the soles of his feet. Dean had run out shirtless, barefoot in the cold dark, and never felt a thing because of adrenaline. But the blood is returning in all parts of his limbs and he _hurts_. All over. And he’s freezing too. He begins to shiver and the shivers turn into shudders. He leans back in the chair and stares at the cracked plaster hanging down from the ceiling, and just shakes. The vacuum cleaner clicks off, the worst of the glass splinters gone. John brushes past Dean and Dean thinks that he feels John’s fingers ghost over his shoulder, but the contact is so brief that he can’t swear to it.

 

John returns from the depths of the house, an ancient threadbare blanket in one arm and an oversized first aid kit in the other. He drapes the blanket over Dean and kneels down, taking one of Dean’s feet in hand and spraying disinfectant on the sole. Then he begins to remove the splinters of rock and glass embedded in the skin, drawing out a surprising amount of blood at the same time. It’s excruciating, but Dean’s had a lot worse.

 

There’s the sound of heavy machinery outside, the tow truck dragging a car chassis across the ground, freeing the cadaver that was once Samuel’s brother; if there was a god, Dean could have prayed for forgiveness but he doesn’t even have that comfort. Dean has seen too much blood, pain, and fire in his life to be a believer.

 

John finishes Dean’s left foot. Gently, he sets it down before picking up the other.

 

The blanket smells musty and old and none too clean as Dean draws it tighter around himself, and shuts his eyes against the sunlight coming through the window. When he opens them again the shadows have moved across the wall and Bobby is standing in front of him, talking to a nervy looking man with horn rimmed glasses and a clipboard in hand.

 

“I’m telling you what happened,” The man says, gesturing with his clipboard, “It was a mini twister, do you understand? A miniature twister dropped down and threw that jeep into the air and the other cars into the air too. Strangest touchdown I ever seen.” Bobby tries to speak but the man with the clipboard throws up his hands. “I don’t want to know what really happened, _I do not want to know, stop talking, it was a twister that did this and that’s what’s going down on the form_.” The man stops talking and draws in a few short breaths to calm himself. “And Bobby, after this we’re even, do you understand? I’m risking my livelihood doing this. And I’ve got kids to feed. Understand?” He repeats. Bobby nods. “Good. And for the love of god,” The nervy man stoops down to pick up a book covered in suspiciously anonymous leather, gilded in nasty looking symbols, “Get this crap cleared up before the builders come.” He shoves the book at Bobby, tucks the clipboard away and stalks out. A car starts up and crunches over the gravel as it heads towards the road. Dean looks at Bobby in askance.

 

“Insurance rep,” Bobby tells him, “I helped him out with a poltergeist a few years back.”

 

Dean draws a deep breath. He tries to say, “I’m sorry,” but all that comes out is a slur of blood and spit. He puts his hand up to his face and his cheek feels swollen and hot to touch.

 

“You need to be in bed,” Bobby says curtly. He helps Dean to his feet and half carries him deeper into the house. Somehow they get to the guest bedroom, where the glass in the windows is cracked but not broken, and Bobby drops Dean down onto the bed. “I’ll be back soon,” Bobby says, “You need to eat. Soup or something.” He leaves, and Dean scrabbles his way into the layers of blankets. It’s gotten so cold so quickly. When Dean first met Samuel, it had been the early days of spring. There’s no snow, but winter has well and truly set in. Sleep is dragging him down, but he fights it long enough to scrutinise the ugly cobbled mess of chicken wire and star pickets that is the cage of Samuel’s rat, and there’s a flicker of movement in there. The little vermin has evidentially survived the catastrophe.

 

Dean drops his head down on the pillow. Sleep isn’t long coming.

 

**

 

_“Soooooup,” Someone hisses, “Have some soooooup.” There’s a massive weight on his chest, pinning him hopelessly to the mattress. “Have some soooooooup,” and there’s a little odd noise at the end, like a snigger that becomes a sob._

_“S...s...sorry...” Dean chokes out. “So sorry. Jake. Sorry.”_

_The hulking shadow leans down. Sammy’s face, twisted, wet, snarling, swims out of the darkness. “Not yet,” Sammy hisses, “You’re not sorry. You’re not sorry yet. But you will be. Oh, you will be.”_

 

Dean makes a little noise in his sleep, a little choked off whimper. Bobby sets a steaming bowl on the little chest of drawers beside the bed. He gently straightens the bedclothes that are knotted too tight around Dean’s chest.

 

Dean does not wake.

 

**

 

He gradually becomes aware of a rhythmic crashing noise. It’s joined by a grating whine that is followed by an empathetic thud. Muscles scream as Dean uncurls from the tangled mess of blankets. He lays there in bed, head empty except for vague irritation at the continuing noise. He wonders idly what it could be and almost drops off again. Then the manic face of Sammy swims up from Dean’s subconscious, and Dean is out of bed and on his feet in a flash. He’s then off of his feet just as quickly as they refuse to hold him. When he lifts his leg to inspect the purple and black mess of cuts and bruises that currently constitute the sole of his foot, he realises that he’s not going to be able to walk comfortably for days, possibly even weeks.

 

“Shit.”

 

It feels like he hasn’t eaten in months. A vague whiff of something tomato is in the air, and he turns to see a bowl of soup is on the chest of drawers. It’s cold as charity and from out of a can, but he gulps it down anyway.

 

The duffle bag in the corner yields some clothes that are reasonably clean. He pulls on three pairs of socks because he’s never owned a pair of slippers, and hobbles out of the room.

 

The glass from the shattered windows has been swept up and plastic tacked up over the frames. It’s bitterly cold; as Dean comes to the living room, he sees several men in high vis shirts and trousers putting the finishing touches on the wall frame. As he watches, they tack more plastic up over the hole that remains and leave; it’s getting dark and their work is done for the day.

 

Bobby is sitting in the kitchen, scribbling furiously in a worn notebook. He looks up to see Dean and says, “Food in the oven for you,” and goes back to his writing. The food turns out to be left over takeaway, but it’s hot and filling and satisfyingly greasy against his tongue. He doesn’t taste much of it because of the blood that oozes from the cut on the inside of his cheek, but he’s eaten worse.

 

“I’m sorry about the house,” Dean says when he’s finished.

 

Bobby sighs, closes the notebook, and sets it aside. “John,” he calls. John appears from out of the study and sits down to join them.

 

“What happened?”

 

It takes a while to get through it all. Not because it’s a long or complex story, but because Dean has to keep stopping to spit out the blood.

 

“That’ll need stiches,” John remarks at the end. He doesn’t say anything about finding Dean out in the cold, holding the hand of that poor dead boy. He shuts his eyes, rubs at his face. “The Colt can’t stay here. They’re just going to send wave after wave of humans and monsters and eventually, one’s going to break through.”

 

“Bobby,” Dean slurs, “How many of Samuel’s brothers and sisters are left?”

 

“Not many,” Bobby replies, “Andrew Gallagher, Anseem Weems, Max Miller and Scott Carey. But all of them are powerful, and they’re all survivors. And they can all cross the salt and iron line.”

 

“The Colt can’t stay here,” John repeats.

 

“Yeah.” Dean spits into a piece of paper towel and stuffs it into a plastic bag already full of towelling. “Look, we got two options. One, we try to hide the Colt. Two, we put it on the road and try to outrun Yellow Eyes. Three,” Here Dean took a deep breath, “We take the fight to him. He wants the Colt. I say that we make it look like we’ll give it to him.”

 

“Why would we do a damn fool thing like that?” Bobby snaps.

 

“Because,” John says quietly, “Because we want Samuel back.”

 

“Exchange,” Dean says flatly. “Samuel for the Colt.”

 

“He’s gotta know that it’s a trap. And he’ll have any number of demons around and his...his...”

 

“Children,” Dean cuts across Bobby. “His children.”

 

John glowers down at the tabletop but does not say anything.

 

“If we do that, we’ll need a hell of a lot more firepower than we have right now. If we called in some favours...”

 

“Even if we had every hunter in the world behind us it wouldn’t be enough, Bobby,” Dean pauses to wipe the blood from his mouth, “We need something else.”

 

“Like what?”

 

John raises his head. “Like a demon. _Your_ demon, Dean.”

 

Suddenly he goes rigid. Bobby bolts to his feet. Dean doesn’t even bother turning around. His stomach does a sickening flip flop and the kiss, which had been silent since he awoke, suddenly blazes into life. A heavy hand, so hot that it almost burns, comes down on his shoulder.

 

“Now you’re talking,” Says Crowley.

 

There’s a choked off whimper and Ruby staggers past. She collapses against the kitchen sink and vomits into it. Both Bobby and John have pulled a gun and a knife each. Bobby is focused on Ruby, John is facing off against Crowley. John’s teeth are bared in a feral smile and he lunges forward. Crowley flicks his fingers and John falls to the floor. Crowley’s spare hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder until Dean could swear that he hears the bones creak.

 

“Sit down, John, sit down, Robert. Can I call you Johnny? Can I call you Bobby? No? Well, sit down anyway and we’ll have a nice chat. Ignore her,” He says contemptuously when John and Bobby scramble to try to place themselves to attack both Crowley and Ruby, “I just made her cross the little line you drew in the sand. She’s pretty much worthless right now.”

 

Ruby sags against the sink, clutching hopelessly at the edge.

 

John lunges at Crowley again, knife held overhead. Crowley sighs at the pain of it all. He grabs John’s wrist and twists it, forcing him to the floor. “Look, we can do this the hard way or the easy way. The hard way is that I break every bone in your body and then we talk. Or, we can skip the breaking bit and just talk. It’s up to you.”

 

“Dad, Bobby,” Dean says miserably, “Just do it. Just sit down.”

 

Grudgingly, clutching weapons, Bobby and John return to their seats.

 

“Good lads,” Crowley says warmly. He takes the remaining chair while Ruby rinses her mouth out with tap water. She props herself against the sink and grips it, white knuckled.

 

Bobby’s mouth is a flat line. John’s eyes dart about the room, assessing potential weapons and accessible exits. Crowley’s fingers flex on Dean’s shoulder, a friendly gesture that makes Dean’s flesh creep. “Spit it out,” Bobby grates.

 

“First you want to talk to me, and then you want me to leave. And here I am to help you. Excuse me a second,” His fingers slide up Dean’s shoulder, cupping Dean’s cheek. Suddenly the taste of blood is gone, as is the gash inside of his mouth. Crowley takes his hand away and Dean finds himself compulsively tonguing the hardened knot of tissue that is left. “Better?”

 

“Yes,” Dean says grudgingly.

 

“Now, boys, let’s discuss this. I want Azazel dead, you want Azazel dead, I’ve even given you the gun to do it. Have I proved that we have mutual goals yet? Yes? Good.”

 

Crowley smiles at them like a carrion eater. With flesh crawling, Dean tries his best to edge away from the demon without moving his chair. John and Bobby glower at Crowley, while his smile gets broader and broader. Finally John shakes his head, gives Dean a flat, unhappy look and says, “Why do you want him dead?”

 

“As I said to Dean,” Crowley’s eyes flick briefly to Dean, “I’m the man who would be king, and Azazel is in the way.”

 

“He’s a high ranking demon, then?”

 

“Yes. But you already knew that. Anything less, even you _morons_ could have killed him eventually.” There’s a hideous noise behind them as Ruby retches again into the sink. “Those human children of his are a definite liability. I must confess that I need help with those. And so far,” Crowley turns his death head’s grin towards Dean, “It seems that Deano here has a way with them.”

 

Lily’s face, Jake’s face, swim out from the dark behind his eyes, and Dean turns away from Crowley. “I was lucky,” he says bitterly.

 

Crowley makes a humming noise. Suddenly, he cracks his hands together sharply, and everyone jumps. “Right,” He says briskly, “Down to business. I do believe that you may have the right idea as far as setting the trap goes. Azazel is very, very old, and therefore has a mild susceptibility to iron. Not enough to weaken him significantly, but then, every little bit helps."

 

Grudgingly, Bobby says, “There’s an abandoned smelter seventy five miles away, just off of the highway.

 

“Excellent,” The demon says, “Now we’re talking.”

 

“What about salt?” John grinds out from between his teeth.

 

“Won’t work,” Crowley says, “Absolutely no problems with it at all.”

 

“Any other weaknesses?” Dean asks.

 

“Nothing, beyond sex, children, and the desire to fuck with anything remotely sentient.”

 

“So,” Dean says slowly, “We offer to exchange the Colt for Samuel. We do it in the smelter.” He looks up. “What about the hellhounds? The demons? The rest of the children?”

 

“That’s where I step in. My demons versus his. My hellhounds verses his. Obviously, anything we can do to weaken him ahead of time helps.” Baring his teeth in that awful smile, Crowley leans towards Dean. “About those remaining children...” He says.

 

Cold shoots up Dean’s spine and it has nothing to do with the kiss. “No,” He snarls, “No. No, I’m not kill them. No. No more. You can do it. Bobby can do it. Dad can do it.” Gesturing in Ruby’s direction, “She can do it. I’m not. I’m sick of killing humans.”

 

“Dean,” John says wearily, “Please.”

 

And Dean’s hands shake, knowing that he has no choice but to go through with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're on the home stretch, people!
> 
> Come join me on LJ. Name of crystalwren_fic. I'm lonely. :(


	19. Hunt You Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in two weeks. I think there's something wrong with me.

_'Cause we hunt you down without mercy_   
_Hunt you down all nightmare long_   
_Feel us breathe upon your face_   
_Feel us shift, every move we trace_

_Hunt you down without mercy_   
_Hunt you down all nightmare long, yeah_   
_Luck runs , you crawl back in_   
_But your luck runs out_

 

 

'All Nightmare Long' -Metallica

 

 

 

_“Do you think you’ll win?”_

_The scars on Samuel’s back are white and broad against his tanned skin. The rod that Dean clutches has no line. The lake is murky, with dark shapes that slip and slide under the surface, just out of sight._

_“It’s not about winning or losing, Samuel,” Dean tells him. “It’s about getting you back.”_

_“You want to own me, too?”_

_“No. I want you to be free.”_

_“You’re going to kill my brothers, aren’t you?”_

_“I don’t want to.”_

_“But you’re going to do it anyway.”_

_“I’m sorry, Samuel,” Dean says, “I’m so sorry.”_

_“Just say it,” Samuel snarls, jolting to his feet. He smacks the rod away, grabs Dean by the front of his shirt and hauls him upright. “Say it._ Say it _. Say that you’re going to murder my brothers.”_

_“I’m going to do it,” Dean whispers, “I’m going to kill your brothers.”_

_Samuel shudders. He lets go of Dean’s shirt and gently smooths it back into place. His head drops forward, and he gently knocks his forehead against Dean’s. “Do you promise?”_

 

**

 

“It’s cold,” Ruby says, “Could you at least wind the window up?”

 

“Suck it up,” Dean snaps.

 

The Impala smells like glue and sealant where the fabric lining the floor and roof have been stripped out and replaced, so that the devil’s traps hidden underneath could be destroyed. Ruby may now enter and leave as she likes. Any demon can, something which gives Dean the raging creeps. The window is wound down and icy night air is blowing in. He’s freezing, but he doesn’t want to give Ruby the satisfaction of doing as she asks. However, when his fingers start to go numb, he reluctantly cedes and shuts the window. Ruby has the intelligence not to comment.

 

“Turn here,” She says.

 

The night is crystal clear, the moon huge and full. It’s a perfect night for hunting, but the prey they’re tracking is human. Dean’s stomach is always uneasy, and his hands shake from time to time. What has to be done must be done, but that doesn’t mean that he has to like it or even accept it. He keeps telling himself that he’s only following orders, but he knows that it’s not the way something like this works.

 

Samuel and Sammy visit him almost every night. It’s hard to sleep.

 

Ahead of them are fields of sleeping cattle and horses, and miles after that is a great shapeless mass, a looming thunderstorm with lightning that lights up the sky.

 

“Stop!” Ruby yells suddenly. Dean stands on the brake and the Impala comes to a screeching halt. She’s out of the car before it even comes to a complete stop, and has vaulted over the fence before he can put the handbrake on. Swearing foully, he darts to the back of the Impala and grabs a rifle and a torch before following Ruby out into the field, slipping on the wet grass.

 

As he follows, he can smell it; sulphur mixed with copper and iron. The light from the torch shows dark, sticky patches on the grass, and then thick lumps of meat. The middle of the field is a slaughterhouse, a dozen head of cattle recognisable only by their heads. The sadism is astonishing; the ground is churned up and there are organs everywhere. It’s obscene and Dean finds himself nauseous and upset. He should be happy that only cows have died, not people, and besides that, in another time and place he’d be happy to eat said cattle medium well done. The air rings with silent screams and this is too much. Too much. He turns away and pretends to be keeping watch on the empty grassland around them.

 

“They were here,” Ruby says, picking up a severed head. Something has reached up the oesophagus and yanked the tongue backwards, so that it hangs down, dangling from the stump of the neck. Dean glances at it and wishes that he hadn’t.

 

“Why? What is it with demons and cattle mutilations?”

 

Ruby shrugs. “Easy targets. And no one would bother investigating too closely.”

 

“Yes, but _why?_ Why do it at all?”

 

White teeth flash in the torchlight. “Hell teaches you to love pain, Dean. A demon’s got to get its kicks somehow.” She drops the head. It lands on the ground with a dull thud. With bloodstained fingers she paws at the grass, scraping up a handful of sulphur dust, which she sniffs at. “Humans were here as well. At least two of them. We’re on the right track.”

 

“Let’s go. I need some shut eye,” Dean starts to walk back the way they came. Ruby scrambles to follow him.

 

They walk in silence back to the Impala. Dean curses at the blood covering his shoes. He pulls some baby wipes and makes futile swipes at the stains. Eventually he gives up and sets a plastic bag in the foot well to protect the fabric. He sneaks a sideways glance at Ruby, but there’s not a drop on her to be seen.

 

They pull into the motel, brightly lit and surrounded by people. Dean is wearing black boots and black jeans, and it’s been raining here. When he gets out of the Impala he deliberately jumps into a puddle, darkening the fabric even further. Hopefully, anyone who sees the stains will think that they’re just rainwater. They pass a family all wearing pyjamas and bathrobes. The woman and her two children look like they’ve watched a murder; the man is on his haunches rocking back and forth, weeping. Further along, two women embrace tightly, desperately, their hands twined in each other’s hair. All of the other patrons look much the same way.

 

In the reception area, the clerk who comes to the desk is just as haggard as everyone else. “A double room?” He says, forcing a smile.

 

“Two singles,” Dean says flatly, before Ruby can say anything. He hands over his credit card and receives two room keys in return. “What’s going on?”

 

“What do you mean?” The smile drops away from the clerk’s face.

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

The clerk makes a valiant attempt to smile again, but it looks more like a grimace. “Bad dreams, I guess.”

 

“Gotcha,” Ruby says, before Dean can ask any more questions. She grabs him by the sleave and pulls him out of the office. He tries to pull away but her grip is iron, stronger even than John’s, and he can’t do anything without tearing his jacket. “Come with me,” She hisses, “Don’t argue.” They end up in the mean little room that’s been allocated to Ruby. She sits on the bed and watches Dean as he paces back and forth. “Strange thoughts, cattle mutilations, humans travelling with demons, a massive storm passing overhead. Who do you think we’re chasing, Dean?”

 

Dean has read the notes that he, John and Bobby made together so many time that he can repeat them almost verbatim. “Anseem Weens and Andrew Gallagher. Can you sense them anywhere nearby?”

 

Ruby shakes her head. “The storm has moved off. They’re travelling with it. What do we do now?”

 

“We get some sleep,” Dean says firmly, “And worry about it in the morning.” He turns to leave.

 

“Dean?”

 

“What?” He looks at her. She’s biting her lip, staring at him intensely. “No,” he says firmly, answering her unspoken question. “It’ll never happen.”

 

He shuts the door behind him. He feels vaguely ill, but he’s not certain whether it’s because of what Ruby wants from him, or from what he saw in the torchlight back at the field.

 

A man reels past, his eyes bleary, whispering, “I love my family. I love my family.” He stops and stares at Dean, haunted and desperate. “I love my family. I do.”

 

“I know you do,” Dean says gently, “It was just a nightmare. Nightmares aren’t real.” He goes back to the Impala and drags out his duffle bag. Guiltily, he walks inside his room and locks the door behind. Dean is an accomplished liar, but there are lies and there are lies.

 

Nightmares are always real, no matter what you tell children or yourself.

 

**

_“They can control thoughts, you know,” Samuel says, dangling his feet in the murky water. “That’s their thing. They can make you see Heaven or Hell, playing like a film inside your head. They can make someone do anything they want.” He glances sideways at Dean. Dean is staring at the water, watching the dark shapes that move just under the surface. There’s a little splash and Samuel yanks his feet up sharpish. He inspects his toes, checking to see if they’re still intact. “You should probably be fine, though.”_

_“Why’s that?”_

_“Because of the thing on the back of your neck.”_

**

 

“So how are we going to do this?”

 

The diner smells like toast and diesel fuel. It’s noisy; just across the road is a large and busy service station, swarming with cars and trucks. Dean cannot help but feel a superstitious twinge when a huge black and silver rig pulls in.

 

Ruby is inhaling her second basket of fries. Dean’s just polished off a burger and a milkshake, and he toys with his plate, contemplating a piece of pie and calculating finances.

 

“Honestly? No idea,” Ruby replies. “Maybe we can put an ad in the paper or something.”

 

“Distribute ‘missing person’ fliers,” Dean says, only half joking.

 

“Could work.”

 

Dean caves in and signals for the waitress. He asks for strawberry pie and whipped cream, and gives the slender woman a perfunctory leer when she smiles at him, although his heart isn’t really in it.

 

“Can you summon them like you would a demon?”

 

The last of the fries disappears down Ruby’s gullet. She chews and swallows, and chases up with coffee. “No,” She says.

  
“Can you summon the demons that are with him?”

 

“Hmm.” Her eyes narrow. “Good question. You can if you know their names.”

 

“Do you?”

 

“What?”

 

“Know their names.”

 

“No.”

 

“Helpful,” Dean says sourly.

 

“I can find out. Thing is, though...”

 

“What?”

 

“If they’re stronger than me, they’ll know I’m coming. And I won’t be able to see them either, not if they don’t want me to.”

 

A chill suddenly wraps around Dean’s spine, and he barely suppresses the urge to shiver. “Do you think that Meg will be there?”

 

“Meg?” Ruby tilts her head to the side like a bird. “I don’t know a Meg.”

 

“She was with Samuel when he-” Dean takes a steadying breath, “-left.”

 

“Oh,” Ruby says flatly. “Her. I’m telling you straight out, Dean, if we went head to head, she’d probably win. She’s Yellow Eyes’ daughter.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Yeah.”

  
“Fuck.”

 

“Yeah.” Tapping her fingers on the tabletop, Ruby stares sightlessly out of the window. Finally she says, “If she is with any of the children, it’d be with Sammy. They’re both Yellow Eyes’ favourites.”

 

“So in that case...” Dean drawls, leaning back in his chair, “There’s nothing to stop you from going after Anseem and Andrew.” He smiles.

 

Ruby glowers at him. “Fucker,” she says. Then she disappears into thin air, leaving Dean to pay for both of their meals.

 

Money may be tight but it’s absolutely worth it, as far as he’s concerned.

 

At the table just across from him, another patron finishes her meal, gets up and goes to the cash register, leaving her newspaper behind. Always one to take advantage, Dean snavels it. The first page is covered in a smudged photo of a reddish smear on green grass. The second page has a much smaller but much more explicit photo of lumps of dead cow scattered across a bloody pasture. He reads the article but it doesn’t tell him anything useful; only that there was no leads in the case and the baffled and traumatised farmer and his equally baffled and traumatised neighbours couldn’t hear a single bellow as twenty head of cattle were slowly and sadistically butchered alive. Concerned citizens had organised themselves and formed a night patrol; Dean silently wishes them luck, as well as any unfortunate itinerant that found had the misfortune to cross paths with them.

 

Further along, hidden amongst highly complex dissertations on long range rainfall patterns and soil quality, is a rather scornful little article about the local crackpot. This man has been going to various town officials for months, hoping for someone who could help him with his poltergeist problem.

 

Something primal nudges at Dean’s hindbrain. Give him a night, just one night, one single, simple night and the poltergeist will be nothing but a bad memory. No demon blood addicted children, no demon alliances, no demons full stop. Just a routine poltergeist, smoke ‘em and banish ‘em. He rises from his chair, teeth bared, newspaper clutched in one fist. The smell of the hunt is in the air...

 

...at this point something clips him across one ear.

 

“What the hell?”

 

That something clips him across the other ear, and then smacks him across the back of his head for good measure. Sulking, Dean sinks back down onto his chair. He’s never allowed to have any fun.

 

**

 

Twenty four hours later, just as Dean emerges from the anaemic spray of his motel shower, there’s a slight but distinctive thud. Naked, he grabs the pistol that he’d left within reach on the bathroom vanity and flattens himself against the wall. There’s a soft moan and the smell of copper and iron. He peers around the door and he sees Ruby, clothes torn, covered in blood. At sight of him she falls back against the bed, teeth bared in an expression somewhere between a snarl and a smile.

 

“They were waiting for me,” She gasps, “It was a trap. They gave me a message for you.” Her jeans are torn and there’s a massive gash in her thigh that runs up into her crotch. Blood is welling up through her fingers. She’s not wearing any underwear. “Don’t just stand there! I need help! You need to sew me up before I bleed to death!”

 

Dean doesn’t hurry too much. He pulls on a pair of jeans and shirt, washes his hands and arms thoroughly. Dawdling while Ruby whimpers, he puts on gloves and pulls out suture thread, needle and pliers. And a knife. Steeling himself, he grabs a handful of bloody cloth and begins to cut it away from her body. The cut is long and deep, and runs up into her labia major. Her fur is saturated in blood and his skin crawls, knowing that he’s going to have to shave it away before he can stitch her back up again. He turns away and takes a deep breath.

 

“If I die,” Ruby hisses, “You’ll never see your precious Samuel again.”

 

Dean’s gut churns. There’s blood everywhere and Ruby is blanched white with blood loss and pain. But ultimately, he has absolutely no choice. He reaches for a razor blade and does what has to be done.

 

An entire hour has passed by the time he is finished. Two layers of sutures, one internal and one external, run from Ruby’s knee to the edge of her labia major. Touching Ruby’s pussy is not the worst thing Dean’s ever done, but it’s still pretty foul. Between Ruby, Meg, Samuel and Crowley, he’s certain that he’ll never want to have sex again. It’s so unbearably cruel.

 

Ruby drowses on the bed, sleepy from pain and blood loss.

 

“What’s the message?” Dean demands.

 

“Message?” She slurs.

 

“You said,” Dean says evenly, “That the demons gave you a message for me. What is it?”

 

“Oh,” She sighs, flexing her bloodied fingers against the fabric of the bedspread. “They said midday. Tomorrow. At the field were they killed all of those cows. John and Bobby strictly not invited.” The words trail off into a soft snore.

 

Dean looks down at his befouled clothing and goes back for another shower. He makes certain to lock the door behind him, although he knows that the flimsy lock won’t stop her if she decides to come in. When he’s done he sees the hotel room afresh, bedspread saturated with blood, the carpet smeared with it. He knows that he’ll have to set a fire to cover it all. Hopefully, this time around he won’t burn down the entire building.

 

Ruby wakes briefly as Dean curls up uncomfortably in the single miserly armchair. “You can sleep beside me if you’d like.”

 

“Not a chance.”

 

 


	20. If You'd Been a Dog, They'd Have Drowned You at Birth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max Miller is next on the list. But Max has an agenda of his own.

_I want you to know_   
_He's not coming back_   
_Look into my eyes_   
_I'm not coming back_   
  
_So knives out_   
_Catch the mouse_   
_Don't look down_   
_Shove it in your mouth_   
  
_If you'd been a dog_   
_They would've drowned you at birth_

 

“Knives Out” – Radiohead

 

 

 

**_THE PHANTOM SLASHER STRIKES AGAIN_ **

_Dean’s sitting in a movie theatre, drink in the holder beside him, fingers idly trailing through a box of popcorn. The theatre is empty except for him and the person sitting directly behind him. An arm reaches over Dean’s shoulder and snavels his popcorn._

_“I love movies,” Samuel says with his mouth full._

_“That’s my mine,” Dean snaps, but his heart isn’t really in it._

_“We can share.” A long leg comes over the top of the seat beside him, followed by the rest of Samuel. He sits beside Dean and steals the drink as well._

_“What’s the movie?” Dean asks._

“The Phantom Slasher Strikes Again _”, Samuel says pedantically, gesturing at the movie screen, where bright red letters sit against a black background. Dean makes a grab for the popcorn but Samuel holds it just out of reach. With the drink left unguarded, Dean’s able to rescue it. He sucks triumphantly at the straw. It doesn’t taste like anything. “That’s where you have to go next,” Samuel adds._

_“Looking for the phantom slasher?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Who is it?”_

_  
“Max. His name is Max.”_

_“Max as in Max Miller?”_

_“Yeah.” Samuel’s teeth crunch on a kernel. The sound seems to ring around the empty theatre. “He can move things with his head. He’s very good at it.”_

_“Dad told me that he’d met him before. Said something about being chased by knives.”_

_“Max has a thing for them.”_

_“Really?” Samuel hums in answer, and Dean lets his head fall back, to stare into the dark above them. “How do we find him?”_

_“Newspapers.”_

_“Can’t you just tell me?”_

_“No. I can’t see him.”_

_“I thought that you all knew about each other? You knew when Ava was killed.”_   
  
_Samuel twitches slightly at the name, but he settles quickly. “It depends on the blood. How much we’ve drank. Max can’t handle all that much. He goes into fits, pisses his pants, convulses. His eyes roll back into his head. It’s really gross. Father’s not really all that interested in him either, so he keeps on running away. He always goes back to his parents, and then he comes back to us after a few months. Then he runs away again. He’s really weird.”_

_There’s a rustle as Samuel shifts in his seat. Long fingers come ghosting up Dean’s thigh, heading towards his groin. With an impatient sigh, Dean bats Samuel’s hand away._

_“Samuel. We’ve talked about this.”_

_“This is a dream,” Samuel points out in a reasonable tone of voice. “It’s not real. It doesn’t matter what we do.”_   
  
_“It matters to me,” Dean tells him firmly._

 

Dean rolls over in his sleep. He slips away from the theatre, and away from Samuel, moving into deeper dreams.

 

**

 

“There has to be an easier way to do this,” Ruby says impatiently.

 

The coffee is adequate but the eggs are overcooked. Dean pokes at his breakfast with a fork, ignores Ruby and concentrates on the newspaper.

 

“I mean,” Ruby says, “Don’t you even have a laptop?”

 

Well, no. Dean can’t afford a laptop, and wouldn’t know how to set one up if he did. Stealing computers is risky and, with the eccentric uses he’d put it to, even riskier to get it repaired if it breaks down. He has a knack for basic electronics but none at all for the software that comes with it. If it came down to it, Dean could probably build his own computer with time and the right manuals, but whatever comes after that is a mystery.

 

“I’m old fashioned,” He tells Ruby, hiding behind his paper. He hears her sigh impatiently. “Besides, you’re the one who’s supposed to be helping track those kids down. Where’s your contribution?” Ruby mutters something foul and then the air goes empty. Dean looks over the top of his paper and sees the vacant seat across from him. She has performed her disappearing act once again. The ever present tension in his shoulders eases slightly, and he stretches to help get the knots out. Leaning back, he stares at the manky looking ceiling. He knows exactly what he is looking for, but Ruby doesn’t know about the kiss or his sleeping visits from Samuel, and he has absolutely no intention of telling her about either.

 

“It’d be great if you could help me with this,” He tells the kiss. The back of his neck goes cold in acknowledgement, but quickly returns to its usual state of feeling vaguely like a cool wind that is slipping down his shirt collar. This isn’t really something the kiss can help with. It’s great in times of action, not much use in times of research, and is a major cockblock when it comes to getting laid. Not that he’s had much chance to do the last one lately, anyway.

 

Dean finishes his paper and moves onto the next. That one and the two following it aren’t what he’s looking for, but his final paper is. He reads the article with mingled satisfaction and resignation.

 

A silent thunderclap, and Ruby reappears in her seat. “I’ve found an internet cafe about three blocks away,” She tells him.

 

“Doesn’t matter. We’re going here.”

 

Dean holds up the paper for her to see. The title is clear and in blazing red:

 

**_THE PHANTOM SLASHER STRIKES AGAIN_ **

**

 

The air is damp and bitterly cold. Dean rubs his hands together, vowing to shoplift a nice warm pair of gloves as soon as he gets the chance. Rotting leaves stick to his shoes as he picks his way carefully up the muddy driveway, towards a small house, cheaply built but nicely kept under its layer of autumn leaves. A small dog in the neighbour’s yard starts yipping when he rings the doorbell.

 

“If you’re a salesman, go away!” A man yells from behind the flimsy looking front door.

 

“No sir,” Dean yells back, “I’m a reporter with the _Lindbergh Weekly News.”_

A chain rattles. The door opens a grudging few inches, a watery blue eye peering out through the gap. “What do you want?”

 

Dean puts on his very best smile. “Sorry to get you at home, Mr Hauptmann, but we’re doing an article on the recent knife attacks and was wondering if you-”

 

“I told ‘em,” Hauptmann interrupts, “I told ‘em what I saw. That knife. Floating in midair. I wasn’t making it up. I really did see it, just before it cut me. That’s all I’m going to say.” The man makes to close the door again but Dean shoves his foot in the gap. He whips the photo out of his pocket and holds it up so the man can see it.

 

“Before I let you go, sir, can you tell me if you’ve seen this kid before?”

 

Hauptmann’s mouth falls open slackly. He peers at the photo and his watery blue eyes widen. “Yes. Yes, I did.” He takes a deep breath. “You’d better come in.”

 

Dean follows Hauptmann into the living room. The older man shuffles painfully. There is blood seeping through his clothes at the small of his back. Dean wonders if Hauptmann is even aware of it. Then he sees the bloody towels strewn all over, to protect the carpet and the furniture. It’s pretty obvious that it’s a valiant and losing battle.

 

Hauptmann gingerly takes a seat. He gestures at Dean to sit also, and Dean does, first moving a soiled towel out of the way.

 

“I was slashed on the front and back of both thighs,” Hauptman says without preamble. “Also on my back and across my chest. All of the cuts are relatively shallow, but because there’s so many of ‘em I can’t move a step without opening at least some. I can’t work, I have a nurse coming every day to change the dressings. It _hurts_. All over. All the time. Gimme the photo.”

 

Dean offers the bit of paper. On it, Max Miller stares sullenly at the camera, eyes reddened, like he’d been crying just moments before the photo had been taken.

 

“This is him,” Hauptmann says, glowering at the photograph. “This kid was standing there. Watching. The knife was movin’ around like it was held by some kind of ghost or something, slicing me up like a beef steak. And this kid just standing there. Just watching. I was screamin’ for someone to help, there was blood going everywhere, and this kid was gettin’ covered in it and never so much as twitched the whole time. And then I was on the ground, the knife drops, and the kid just turns and walks away. You’d think he’d been watchin’ television the whole time.” His mouth works. “It was him, wasn’t it? Controllin’ the knife.”

 

“Well, that’s what I’m investigating,” Dean says smoothly. “It’s a pretty unbelievable story, but when so many other people are telling the same one, there has to be something in it.” He takes the photograph back. “Have you seen him since?”

 

The older man looks away. Something haunted crosses his face. “I felt like someone- some _thing_ \- was watching the house. For about a week after the attack, every night. I have nightmares. About this kid just walking in the front door. Finishing what he started.” He looks sharply at Dean. “How did you get the photograph? How do you know it was him?”

 

Dean’s prepared an answer for this one. “A boy matching his description went missing not too long ago. The police investigating tracked him on mall surveillance cameras just before the first attack. And he- or someone who looks just like him- has been at the scene of every attack following that.”

 

“Why?” Hauptmann asks sharply, “Why slice me up like one of those kitchen shows on TV?”

 

Dean shakes his head. “I have no idea.”

 

“What are you going to do if you find this kid?”

 

Kill him, most likely. But Dean’s not about to say that aloud. “I honestly don’t know, sir, it depends on my editor.”

 

“Huh.” Hauptmann’s head drops back against the headrest of his chair. “Be careful. If you do find him, he might slice you up too. Then again, you might not be his type either.”  
  
“What do you mean?”

 

Hauptmann grins mirthlessly. “Use your eyes. Everyone who got cut looked just like me. Same height, same build, same age, hell, even the same eye colour. Got a thing for men like me, has that boy.”

 

**

 

Ruby is waiting for Dean as he gets into the Impala. “What did he say?”

 

“Give me that folder.” Dean flicks through it rapidly. Descriptions of Max’s victims in an escalating pattern of violence, past sightings of Max, hospital records of Max’s childhood broken bones and scarred limbs, many police reports on the Millar family and finally, a photograph of Max’s biological father. It’s all so obvious. Dean shakes his head, wondering why he didn’t see it before.

 

“Is something the matter?”

 

Dean exhales and rubs at his eyes. “I know where he’s going next.” He holds the photograph of Miller Senior next to the photograph of Hauptmann. “Max is going to try and murder his father.”

 

**

 

Someone raps on the window and Dean starts awake. A coffee cup is hovering beyond the glass; he winds down the window and Ruby hands it over. The coffee is substandard and there’s not enough sugar in it, but it’s hot and has caffeine. The Impala rocks as Ruby opens the passenger side door.

 

“Anything?” she asks.

 

“Nothing whatsoever,” Dean yawns. “Dead quiet.”

 

“Can’t believe you fell asleep like that that,” Ruby mutters into her own cup. Dean pretends not to have heard. He knows that the kiss would have woken him up if anything important happened. Exhausted from poor sleep, nightmares in between visits from Samuel, Dean had taken advantage of Ruby’s brief absence to have a quick nap. It’s not enough but he’ll take what he can get.

 

Still. Sleeping while on surveillance is probably not the best habit to get into.

 

Yawning, he checks the time on his mobile. Just shy of two am. “Let’s call it at this,” he says. “All of Max’s attacks have happened in daylight, around noon. I don’t think he’s going to change that now.”

 

“Why noon, I wonder,” Ruby says thoughtfully.

 

Dean shrugs. “Maybe he’s afraid of the dark.” Dean wouldn’t blame him if he was. Max knows what’s out there.

 

He drives back to the motel they’re based at. He pulls up to let Ruby get out, but doesn’t turn off the ignition. “Where are you going?” she asks.

 

Dean snaps, “What are you, my mother?” Ruby slams the door shut with more force than is necessary.

 

The Impala hums as he backs out and heads towards the nearest bar. “Look,” he says aloud, “Do you suppose that you can, like, back away for a bit? Just for a few hours.” The kiss burns in reply. It doesn’t like leaving him as a general rule, even when he’s taking care of various types of intimate business. He’s managed to negotiate freedom in the bathroom, so that’s something, even though he has to put salt down across the doorway before it’ll let him be. “I only want to get laid,” he adds plaintively. Something hard smacks him across the back of his head. “I’m an adult!” Dean roars. “I can do what I like!” The kiss becomes a bite. Dean grits his teeth and bears it. The pain focuses intensely and then stops abruptly. The sensation of cold on the back of his neck grudgingly fades away, and Dean is free. He heaves a great sigh of relief.

 

He pulls into the car lot. It’s nearly empty; it must be close to closing time, even though it’s the weekend. Inside the bar, the wait staff is weary eyed, wearing false smiles. There’s a pool table, complete with a bored looking shark circling about. A game would be nice but Dean has an agenda and it isn’t playing pool.

 

The bar tender is not quite pretty, but she has the right build and flaming red hair, instead of Meg’s bleached blonde and Ruby’s brunette. Dean smiles at her and pours on the charm. He tells her jokes, she laughs, leans forward and murmurs into his ear, and for the first time in forever, he doesn’t want to flinch away.

 

She takes him home and even lets him eat her out. She cooks him breakfast when it starts to get light out, kisses him, and sends him on his way without even asking his name.

 

It’s a great way to start the day.

 

Dean goes back to the motel, high on sex and lack of sleep. Ruby is waiting for him, leaning against the door to his room. When she sees his rumpled clothes and goofy grin, she sneers and stalks off, leaving him to wonder what the hell her problem is.

 

**

 

Dean showers, catnaps, and is back in the saddle- or rather, the Impala- by ten AM. Ruby is with him, sulking sullenly, like she’s been wronged somehow. They sit in silence, Ruby obviously uncomfortable, Dean not giving a toss either way. In retrospect, it was the sitting together bit that was the mistake, and a glaringly obvious one at that. They should have split up, one watching the front of the Miller house, one watching the back.

 

It is already too late by the time the window shutters slam shut on the Miller house. The screaming starts almost immediately. Dean and Ruby are out of the Impala in an instant, pulling at the shutters, trying to get them open. Two of the neighbours join them; the first one is there almost as soon as Ruby and Dean. The other delays long enough to grab a crowbar.

 

They get one of the shutters off to see Max step over the bloody corpse of his biological father. Then, while Dean is still reaching for his gun, Max takes up his kitchen knife and blinds his stepmother.

 

The stepmother doesn’t scream. She just slumps against the wall, blood running down her face like tears, making soft, sticky wet sounds.

 

“Let the punishment fit the crime. Let the punishment fit the crime,” Max mutters, swaying from side to side. He turns and looks at Dean and the others. “She liked to watch, you see. And now she doesn’t.” His eyes are huge and wet and haunted. He gestures at Dean’s gun. “Is that the Colt?” he asks in much the same tones as asking about the weather.

 

“No,” Dean says flatly. “I don’t have it.”

 

“Pity,” says Max, “Because I’d really like to die now. I guess I’ll just have to do it myself.”

 

And then Max cuts his own throat.

 

It’s over very quickly.

 

In the aftermath, Ruby and Dean slink away, before anyone can ask them who they are, or what they are doing there.

 

Back in the Impala, Ruby whispers, “I wish we had the Colt with us. Max doesn’t belong in Hell. He deserves peace.”

 

Dean snarls and turns on the ignition. He swerves onto the road, nearly taking a header with a cop car before he yanks the wheel and speeds off. “Spare me your better nature, _demon.”_


End file.
